


la misma canción, diferente melodía

by orphan_account



Series: the same song, but a different melody 'verse [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: (insert shrug emoji here), -and not care if a child is listening, Gen, NOW FINISHED!, Role Reversal, Roleswap, To be fairly honest tho... this is all just a precursor for a Vicesto fic..., and uhhh that's it, chelo and cheech switch, ernestina got issues, every song is in español, genderswapping two characters because i the author have my rights!, i swear agustín lara will make an appearance alongside frida kahlo and it shall be grand, rated T since there will be swears because it's a very common thing in latin america to be vulgar-, some deviations from canon here and there, some stuff from the deleted scenes are thrown in, subtle differences here and there, that and because of other stuff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 22:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Héctor did not leave his family to become a musician with a man by the name of Ernesto de la Cruz. It was Imelda who left to become a musician, with a woman named Ernestina de la Cruz.Now, years later, it is up to her great-great grandson, Miguel, to uncover the secrets behind his family’s past, including the truth about his great-great grandmother.





	1. the way of the riveras

**Author's Note:**

> so, a while ago, i read two roleswap fics – the first was one where imelda and héctor were the only ones switched, and ernesto was still an evil dude except he had more… psychotic/sociopathic tendencies, and was generally a colossal asshole (not saying he isn’t a dick in canon because he is, but like, he was batshit insane in that fic). also the plot twists are thrown aside, so none of that heartfelt “we’re family” realization or the soft yet dark “you must do whatever it takes to… seize your moment” quote when de la cruz is exposed. it was good tho. the second was again, a role switch between everyone’s favorite canon couple, but this time it had rosa as the one who got cursed and a female oc replaced ernesto – and i liked it as i did with the first, except i don’t really see rosa as the one getting cursed (she seems like the cousin who’d be way too rational. or cowardly. either way, i just do not see her in that role) or idolizing someone the way miguel does (maybe it's just because a lot of teens tend to be more aware than 12 year olds). that, and the instrument of the film’s theme is a guitar and i cannot see the violin taking its place, and ernesto’s a fun villain so idk why he's gotta be switched out, yada yadda…  
> basically, what i’m saying is that while i liked both of those fics, they still just don’t fit what i had in mind for a roleswap fic, so i wrote my own – though, of course, it’s not gonna follow the script 100% lol. i’m obviously doing my own takes here and there, like everyone’s elses retellings – because canon is a box of scraps when it comes to AUs, and i’m picking and choosing what i’d like to keep in while adding my own subtle differences here and there.  
> case in point: ernesto’s been genderswapped as well as victoria, and the songs are all in spanish because author’s rights™! other subtle differences will be shown as the story progresses, but i promise that i’ll try staying true to the characters’ personalities – though obviously, with slight changes too. i'm also gonna take liberties to use a few things from the deleted scenes, since it's apparently all free game.  
> with this long ass note aside, i hope you like this roleswap au!

_Most stories start out with “once upon a time” or “in a land far, far away.” These stories usually end with the heroine and her lover living happily ever after, and maybe starting a family of their own – that, or the heroine overcomes all of her obstacles before finally returning back to her village. No matter how the tales are told, they all have one thing in common – a happy ending. There’s no lies, no heartache or abandonment – the heroine’s lover does not leave her alone at home with a child to raise, while he goes off to fulfill his own dream, never bothering to come back…_

 

_…though in my case, it’s actually the heroine who leaves._

 

_Okay, so that might be a little confusing for you – but just let me explain._

 

 _See, a long time ago – I mean_ after the revolution ended long ago, _not the fairytale long ago – there was this family: a mamá, a papá and their little girl. The mamá was a musician, and she would play music for her husband and daughter – she and her family would sing and dance together in pure bliss, as though they were in their own little world._

 

_But the mamá had a dream of her own: to play for the world._

 

_So she packed up her suitcases and all of her belongings, leaving with her guitar slung on her back… and she never came back. She just disappeared without a single trace._

 

_And the papá, you ask? He stopped waiting for the musician as it became clear to him that she wasn’t coming home anytime soon. The first thing he did was throw out all of the instruments, records and just about anything that made noises even resembling a melody – he practically banned music completely!_

 

_He read all the books he could, before using his last peso on some leather – and with that, he made his first pair of shoes. I personally think he’d be better off making toys, or being a schoolteacher or even a college professor – but in the end, his decision was shoes, and that's the decision he stuck with throughout his life._

 

_When his daughter turned twelve, he taught her how to make shoes. Later, he taught his son-in-law, his granddaughter and grandson – as the family grew, the business did as well. The knowledge of making shoes was passed down from generation to generation, in a never-ending circle of footwear._

 

_Music nearly destroyed his family tree, but shoes was the string that tied the rest of his family all together._

 

_The man who became the shoemaker is my great-great grandfather, Papá Héctor. He died of a heart attack in 1970, just a year before my Tío Berto was born – but my abuelita still tells his story every year on Día de los Muertos._

 

_And the little girl, his preciosa hija? She’s my great-grandmother, Mamá Coco._

 

_“Holá, Mamá Coco.”_

 

_“How are you, Julio?”_

 

_My name is Miguel, actually – Julio is the name of her husband who died in 2001, only two years before my Prima Rosa was born. Mamá Coco has trouble remembering things, since she’s ninety-nine and pushing one-hundred in a year… but it’s good to talk to her anyway, since she’s the only one I can really talk to now._

 

_I used to talk to Prima Rosa about everything, but when she started working at the shoe shop, we started talking less and less… but whatever. At least I can tell Mamá Coco everything._

 

 _And I mean_ everything _– how my way of running has changed, my love of wrestling and how I have a dimple on one side but not the other._

 

_“Miguel, eat your food!”_

 

_My Abuelita Elena is Mamá Coco’s daughter, though sometimes I wonder how they’re related when they’re both so different…_

 

_“You’re practically a twig, mijo. Have some more.”_

 

_“No, gracias. I’m good.”_

 

_“…I asked if you would like some more tamales.”_

 

_“I – I mean s-sí?”_

 

 _“That’s what I_ thought _you said!”_

 

 _She runs the house more strictly than Papá Héctor ever did. This means that whenever I blow into a glass soda bottle, or when a truck drives by the window with its blaring radio tunes_ or _even when a trio of gentlemen happen to be strolling by the compound while serenading each other, she’ll yell: “No music!”_

 

_We’re the only family in Mexico who doesn’t like music, and they’re all fine with that._

 

_I’m not like them, though._

 

_Whenever I’m able to go out, I visit the one place my family bans me from visiting: the plaza. Passing by the musicians and their bands as radios blare with their cumbia rhythms and the church bells chime in harmony, tapping out rhythms on fantastical wooden alebrije sculptures, hanging out Dante – I love it all, even if Dante can be a dumb dog sometimes._

 

_I know I’m not supposed to love music, but it’s not my fault! It’s hers: Ernestina de la Cruz._

 

_Born in 1896, she was a beautiful mariachi with a powerful, heavenly voice – the most magnificent musician of all time._

 

_“And right here, in this very plaza, the young Ernestina de la Cruz took her first steps toward becoming the most beloved singer in Mexican history!”_

 

_She started out a total nobody from Santa Cecilia, like me – but when she played music, she made people fall in love with her! In fact, she had many lovers in the past, even though she never actually settled down and married a man._

 

_Not only could she sing well, but she made a pretty good actress, too – to the point where she starred in over twenty films! She had a cool skull guitar, she could fly and she wrote the best songs ever!_

 

 _But my favorite out all her songs is_ Recuérdame.

 

_“Recuérdame,_

_Hoy me tengo que ir, mi amor!_

_Recuérdame,_

_No llores por favor!”_

 

_The music, the lights, all of the men dancing, De la Cruz twirling around in her mariachi suit’s dress while playing her guitar!_

 

_“Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás,_

_A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar._  
_  
_ _Recuérdame,_

_Aunque tenga que emigrar,_

_Recuérdame,_

_Si mi guitarra oyes llorar!_

_Ella con su triste canto te acompañará,_

_Hasta que en mis brazos tú estés…”_

 

_She lived the kind of life you’d dream about…_

 

_“Recuérdame!”_

 

_…until 1942, when she was crushed by a giant bell during a midnight performance._

 

_I wanna be just like her._

 

_Sometimes, I look at the statue of her and I get this feeling… it’s like we’re connected somehow. Like, if she could play music, then maybe I could too, someday…_

 

* * *

 

“…if it wasn’t for my family.”

 

“Wow, your life sounds rough, kid,” the mariachi woman sympathized.

 

Miguel snapped out of his daydream and looked up at her. “Yeah…” He went back to shining the woman’s shoe. “Sorry for talking so much. I just can’t really talk about this at home…”

 

“Why don’t you try standing up to them?” the mariachi woman suggested. “You have the right to voice your thoughts.”

 

“I don’t know if I have the courage to…”

 

“But aren’t you a musician?”

 

“I don’t know…” Miguel shrugged. “I’ve only played for myself, not others–”

 

“Did De la Cruz become the world’s best musician by shying away from showing off her majestic skills? _No!_ She walked out onto that plaza and played out loud!” She gestured to a band stand, where organizers were setting up for a show. “Mira! They’re setting up for the competition tonight – for Día de Muertos.” She turned back to the boy. “Wanna be like your heroine? You oughta sign up.”

 

Miguel shook his head quickly. “If I signed up, my family would have a bunch of _heart attacks_!”

 

“Look, do you want to waste your life by making shoes?” the mariachi woman asked him.

 

Miguel considered it, then said, “No…”

 

“Remember what De la Cruz always said?”

  
“Of course – how could I forget her most popular catchphrase:  _Seize your moment_?” Miguel quoted the deceased musician.

 

The mariachi glanced at her own guitar, then offered it to the boy. “Play for me, muchacho. I’ll be your first audience.”

 

Miguel’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He glanced between it and the mariachi. He spread his fingers across the stringers, then raised his hands to strum them.

 

“ _MIGUEL_!”

 

At the sound of his grandmother’s voice, Miguel quickly pushed the guitar back into the mariachi’s hands. He turned around, freezing up as he saw his grandmother storming over, with his Tío Berto and Prima Rosa following with bouquets of marigold flowers from the market.

 

“A-Abuelita!”

 

“What are you doing here?!”

 

Miguel quickly packed away his shine rag and shoe polish. “Um… uh…”

 

Elena marched over to the mariachi woman, removed one of her sandals and struck the musician’s forehead with it. “Deja a mi nieto solo, _sucia sirena_!”

 

“Señora, por favor! I was only–”

 

“ _SILENCIO_!” Elena shouted at her. She looked to her grandson. “What was she saying to you?”

 

“She was only showing me her guitar, that’s all!”

 

His tío and prima gasped. “Have you no shame or decency?!” his tío yelled at the mariachi woman.

 

Elena held her sandal up at the mariachi, threatening her with it. “My grandson is a _dulce, perfecto, precioso angelito_ – he wants no part of your brainwashing music, _sirena!_ Leave him alone!”

 

Frightened by the elderly woman, the mariachi scurried away.

 

After putting her sandal back on, Elena smothered her grandson with a tight hug, showering him with a bunch of kisses. “Ay, mi bebito!” She then released him from her embrace. “You know better than to be at the plaza! You will come home _now._ ”

 

The elderly woman stormed away, followed by her eldest son and her granddaughter – but not before the latter flashed a sympathetic look at Miguel, to which the boy sighed.

 

(Rosa used to be the second only person he talked to about everything, including music – but when she turned twelve and started working at the shoe shop, she became more responsible, more orderly, more of a shoemaker than a girl who aspired to be a violinist.

 

But the real injustice of it all was when Abuelita started saying how she was almost just like her Tío Víctor – a grandparent’s obedient child.

 

Sure, it made some sense – Rosa’s middle name was _Victoria,_ which was based on her late Tío Víctor’s name. That didn’t lessen the sting that the comment had left on Miguel.

 

So, he stopped trying to talk to Rosa as it was clear as day she wouldn’t want to dare break the rules lest she should disappoint Abuelita, her parents or Tío Víctor.

 

At least Mamá Coco wouldn’t betray him in fear of breaking the rules.)

 

Miguel picked up his shine box. Then, he saw a flyer for the plaza’s talent show on a noticeboard nearby. He ripped it from the board and pocketed it, then ran to catch up with his family.

 

“How many times have we told you to stay away from that plaza!” Berto scolded him. “That place is filled with mariachis, musicians – all kinds of _sirenas_!”

 

“Lo sé, Tío Berto.”

 

Dante strolled out of the alleyway towards Miguel, barking eagerly while the boy attempted to shoo him away.

 

“ _Vete, chucho_!” Elena shooed him away by taking off her sandal once again and throwing it at the Xoloitzcuintli, causing the dog to dart off in fear.

 

“It’s just Dante! He doesn’t bite or scratch!”

 

“You shouldn’t name street dogs!” Elena said, turning back to the boy. “They become to attached once given a name… ahora, ve por mi zapato.”

 

* * *

 

“Encontré a tu hijo en Mariachi Plaza!”

 

Enrique sighed in exasperation, turning away from his work to his son. “Miguel–”

 

“You know that the plaza is forbidden,” Luisa interrupted softly, though there was a bit of sympathy in her tone. She was once in a position similar to Miguel’s when she first married into the family, having to give up on music completely just to be with her love.

 

“I was only shining a woman’s shoes!” Miguel tried defending himself.

 

“ _A mariachi woman’s shoes_!” Berto added, making the entire family minus his daughter gasp in shock. His eldest son, Abel, was so shocked that he lost his grip on the shoe he was polishing, which flung away from the polisher and lodged up in the roof.

 

“The plaza has countless musicians who need a shoe shine – it’s the perfect place for foot traffic!”

 

Enrique rolled his eyes, then stated, “If Abuelita says the plaza is forbidden, then it is _forbidden._ No more sneaking off there, trying to get all friendly with the musicians. There are plenty of other places where you can find good foot traffic.”

 

“But what about tonight?” Miguel blurted out.

 

His Abuelito Franco raised an eyebrow. “What’s tonight?”

 

“Well, um…” Miguel fiddled with his thumbs as he turned to his mother, squirming a little. “They’re having this talent show, and I thought I might…”

 

“…sign up?” Luisa finished, smiling curiously.

 

“Maybe?”

 

“Don’t you need an instrument to enter a talent show?” Rosa asked, laughing a little. “Like a violin?”

 

“Yeah!” Abel agreed with his younger sister. “Or an accordion!” The shoe from the ceiling fell onto his head one second later, causing him to shut up before Elena could shoot a glare at him or his sister for bringing up instruments.

 

Before Miguel could so much as even respond to his cousins’ words, his Abuelita grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. “It’s Día de los Muertos – _no one_ will be going anywhere, especially not to a talent show!” She pushed a bouquet of marigolds into his hands. “ _Esta noche es sobre familia y tradición!_ Ofrenda room. Vamonos.”

 

Miguel spat out a marigold petal as Elena dragged him out of the shoe shop, into the courtyard. She let go on him, only so that she could push her mother’s wheelchair into the ofrenda room. He followed her to the family ofrenda, holding the pile of marigolds for her so that she could arrange the flowers on the altar.

 

“No me mires así,” she scolded him upon seeing the look on his face. “Día de los Muertos is the only night of the year where our relatives can come and visit us.” She gestured to all of the photos on the ofrenda. “We put up their photos so that their spirits are able to cross over – this is very important! If we don’t put their photos up, they won’t be able to come here.” She pointed to all the offerings set up. “You see all of this food – all of these offerings? These are all of the things they’ve loved in life. So much work is put into bringing the family together. I don’t want you sneaking off to who knows where–” She looked up to find her grandson trying to sneak away. “Hombre joven, _where do you think you’re going_?”

 

“I thought we were finished…”

 

“ _Dios mío_ …” Elena grabbed Miguel’s arm, dragging him back towards the ofrenda. “Do you think these are all just pictures on a shelf? _No!_ They’re family, and they’re counting on us to keep their memory alive.” She picked up the picture of her father. “Miguel, take a look,” she said as she held her father’s photo up. “This is your Papá Julio. You know what he did – for _sixty-three years,_ he made shoes.” She pulled him over to the twins’ side of the ofrenda, picking up her great-uncles’ photos. “Over here, we have the twins: your Tíos Óscar and Felipe.” She looked between the photos, unable to tell who was who. “Felipe and Óscar?” She shrugged, putting the photos back on the shelf. “Whatever, doesn’t matter – they made shoes.” She then pointed to her older brother’s photo. “And your Tío Víctor–”

 

“–let me guess: he made shoes, too?” Miguel interrupted. He shook his head, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. “Abuelita, what point are you trying to make here?”

 

“To be a part of this family means that you must accept your role and _be here_ for this family,” Elena answered him. “I don’t want to see you end up like–” she stopped as she looked up to the photo of Papá Héctor, a young Coco and Coco’s mother.

 

The patriarch’s wife’s face had been torn out of the photo long ago, leaving nothing but a faceless woman in a traditional dress. If it had not been for the fact that she held little Coco in her lap, the rest of her body would’ve probably been ripped out from the picture as well.

 

“Like Mamá Coco’s mamá?” Miguel finished for his grandmother.

 

“Shh! We do not speak of that – _that_ _moza sucia y mentirosa_!” Elena snapped. “  _She’s better off forgotten_!”

 

“But you’re the one who brought her up,” Miguel pointed out. “And how do we know if she left on _purpose?_ What if she–”

 

“Shhh!”

 

“I’m just saying–”

 

“ _Shhhhh_!”

 

“Mamá?”

 

The two turned to see Coco, with her eyes opened as she looked around the room for any traces of her mother. “Has Mamá finally come home?”

 

“No, Mamá,” Elena sighed. “She’s not here.” She smiled as she went over to her mother. “But it’s okay. _I’m here._ ”

 

Coco looked up at her daughter. “And who might you be, _mujer joven_?”

 

Sadness rose within Elena, but she managed to swallow it down. “Descansa, Mamá,” she whispered gently, pulling up her mother’s blanket to keep the older woman warm. “…Miguel, I’m only hard on you because I don’t want you to– _Miguel_?”

 

The twelve year-old was nowhere to be found, though.

 

“Oh, when will that boy learn?” Elena asked as she looked back at the ofrenda. She looked to the photo of Papá Héctor, and her eyes soon brightened as an idea formed in her mind. “That’s a brilliant idea, Abuelito! That is _exactly_ what he needs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that turned out a little longer than i expected  –  but that's okay. all that matters is that it turned out pretty well, or at least i think it did. i hope all of the differences, changes and dialogue are good enough to all of you readers' liking. as the stories continues, you'll be seeing more of these changes.   
> and i'll just say right here and now that my ideal VA headcanon for ernestina would be salma hayek. fight me.  
> the pieces of fanart that inspired this was [these three](https://66.media.tumblr.com/942af8d7c54f92ec0b1be9a4465d01e7/tumblr_pd8u5mJHL61wjes5yo1_1280.jpg) [fanarts of a](https://66.media.tumblr.com/790199b393c8f36079dafd9d5df5859c/tumblr_pdwwujGIHA1wjes5yo2_1280.jpg) [reverse au](https://66.media.tumblr.com/9ec2b4b9a1139b9d62f4e1d73b02ddf7/tumblr_pb3ghgQHpz1wjes5yo1_1280.jpg), [this picture of a genderbent ernesto](https://66.media.tumblr.com/56e9828176f175f8755dc6327aa04522/tumblr_p1u7gslZcT1w7x9lho1_1280.jpg) and my friend kchips' art that she showed me in one of our conversations –  seriously, so much awe-inspiring artwork!


	2. a shocking finding and a curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter not too long after the first was posted? yep. i love the reverse au _that much._

Miguel almost immediately tried to hide all of his prized possessions from view as light suddenly shined in, but relaxed as he saw that it was only Dante.

 

“Oh, _Gracias a Dios_ , solo eres tú,” he sighed in relief, then gestured for the dog to come in. “Date prisa y entra aquí, Dante!”

 

Dante wriggled into the hideout. Seeing that the boy was hunched over something, he peeked around his shoulder.

 

“You need to stay quiet, or else you’ll get me into trouble, boy,” Miguel whispered. “They’ll hear us.” He revealed a makeshift guitar, crafted from various items from a junkyard. He took a black marker, drawing out a nose on his version of De la Cruz’s skull guitar’s head. “Hah, can you imagine someone actually _wanting_ to hear me?” He tuned the guitar. “You’re the only one who doesn’t have a problem hearing me play…”

 

Dante didn’t seem to understand the boy’s words, merely giving the child a sloppy lick in return.

 

“Ick!” the boy laughed in disgust, pushing the dog away. He strummed the guitar, grinning as the strings let out a perfect tune. “ _Maravilloso_!” He went further into his attic, where an ofrenda of Ernestina de la Cruz was set up. Posters, songbooks, candles and even an old TV with a bunch of tapes featuring Ernestina’s greatest moments were arranged with care.

 

All of this work, just so he could have a place where he could feel like he was at home, at a place where he could be himself.

 

He lit the candles with reverence, the light illuminating an album cover of De la Cruz holding her skull guitar. The boy couldn’t help but compare the head of his guitar to his idol’s, imitating her pose and smile. He was getting there with his guitar, slowly but surely.

 

He switched on the TV and pushed a tape into the VCR, watching the montage of so many marvelous moments from Ernestina de la Cruz’s films play out.

 

In a clip from _A Quien Yo Amo_ …

 

“I must sing,” Ernestina insisted. “I must play my guitar, and dance to its rhythm. You have to understand that the music – it isn’t just something I feel inside of me. _It’s a part of me._ ”

 

Miguel began to strum his guitar, with the mariachi’s words of wisdom echoing throughout his mind. More clips played along with each plucking of the guitar’s strings.

 

“Whenever life is at its worst, playing my guitar always manages to keep me going.”

 

In another clip from _A Quien Yo Amo:_

 

“The rest of the world follows these strict rules and regulations, but I _refuse_ to live that type of life,” Ernestina said as she stepped closer to a man in a tux, while she was in a mariachi suit. “Instead, I follow my heart.”

 

Miguel gagged at the sight of his idol passionately kissing some random man, rolling his eyes at the cheesiness of it all.

 

“I always get this feeling, like there’s a song in the air and it’s playing just for me… do you feel it, too?”

 

As he watched her play the guitar in the video, he repeated the melody on his own guitar.

 

 _“Cerca está el amor, ya se siente su encanto,_ _  
_ _Nunca creí que algo así iba a llegar para mí.”_

 

As a well-meaning priestess in _Nuestra Iglesia,_ Ernestina told a nun: “You need to have faith, hermana.”

 

“Oh but Madre, he will never listen!” the nun replied.

 

“He will listen…” Ernestina pulled out her guitar, making her usual pose as she held it. “…to _music_ !” With that, she continued singing, _“Una canción, una canción llega hasta el corazón…”_

 

“Nunca subestimes el poder de la música…”

 

Miguel’s eyes closed as he lost himself withing the music. His tune intertwined with the melodies played on the TV set.

 

The clip jumped forward:

 

“But my mother - she will never give me her permission!” Lorenzo said in despair.

 

“I’m not going to ask for permission,” Ernestina stated firmly. “When your moment comes, you cannot let it go - you must _seize it_!”

 

Miguel opened his eyes, only to see the tape nearing its end as the last clip was shown – an interview taken from when Ernestina was at the peak of her career.

 

“Señora de la Cruz, what did it take for you to seize your moment?”

 

“I had to have faith in my dream,” the musician answered honestly. “Nobody was going to come and give it to me. It was up to me to achieve that dream, capture it and see it come true.”

 

“…and see it come true,” Miguel repeated. The tape ended, allowing the words to sink into him. He reached for the flyer that advertised the plaza’s talent show. “No longer will I hide away, Dante. I have to seize my moment and live it! I’m going to play in that plaza even if it costs me my life!”

 

He paid no mind to the preparations for the celebration occurring within the compound as he went up to the rooftops and snuck across with his guitar, sliding down a long wooden board. He was about to head to the plaza, only to stop as he heard his father’s voice.

 

“Mamá, dónde deberíamos poner esta mesa?”

 

Miguel and Dante backed up as Enrique and Berto rounded the alleyway’s corner.

 

“En el patio, mijos.”

 

Miguel’s heart nearly stopped as he saw his grandmother sweeping the sidewalk behind him.

 

“Down by the kitchen?”

 

“Sí. Next to the other one.”

 

Miguel rushed into the ofrenda room, ushering Dante past a sleeping Coco. He shoved both the dog and the guitar under the ofrenda. “Abajo, baja!”

 

“Miguel!”

 

“N-nothing!” he said quickly, turning to face his grandmother, father and mother. The adults stared straight at him, making a pit form in his stomach as he thought he’d been caught. “Mamá, Papá, I–”

 

Enrique lifted a finger, silencing his son. “Miguel… your abuelita had a fantastic idea! We’ve all decided that it’s time you join us in the workshop!”

 

A leather apron was thrown around Miguel’s shoulders. “ _What_?!”

 

“No more shining shoes,” Enrique continued. “From now on, you’ll be making them every day after school!”

 

Elena squealed as she shuffled toward Miguel, squeezing his cheeks with pride. “Our Migueli-ti-ti-ti-to continuing the family tradition on Día de Muertos! Your ancestors will be so proud, _especially_ your Papá Héctor!” She gestured to all of the shoes on the ofrenda. “You’ll craft huaraches just as your Tío Víctor had!”

 

“And wingtips like your Papá Julio, and drivers like the twins–”

 

Miguel moved away from his grandmother. “But what if I’m no good at making shoes? What if – what if I’m not cut out for the business at all?”

 

“Ah, Miguel,” Enrique chuckled, pointing towards the ofrenda. “You have your family – your _Papá Héctor_ – to guide you on every step of the way. You are a Rivera, and a Rivera is…?”

 

“…a shoemaker, through and through,” Miguel completed the family’s phrase.

 

“That’s my boy!” Enrique hugged his son, before he ran out to call for his brother to break out the cocktails.

 

Luisa smiled a little at her son, cupping his cheeks before following after her husband.

 

After his grandmother smothered him with a bunch of kisses, Miguel found himself alone in the ofrenda room, his spirits falling.

 

Suddenly, there was a noise coming from the ofrenda. He turned and much to his horror, found Dante eating some of the food left on the ofrenda. “Dante, stop! No!” He tried to pull the dog away from the ofrenda, only for the xolo to stick his claws into the ends of the cloth as he kept licking at the mole. All of the pictures and offerings shook, until the torn photo of Papá Héctor and his wife fell to the ground, with its frame cracking on impact.

 

“Oh _no_!” Miguel picked up the old photo, moving away the shards of glass. “No…”

 

As he tried to think of how he was going to fix the frame, the photo unfolded to reveal another part of the photo – one that had been hidden for _years._

 

By the faceless woman’s feet was a guitar, specifically a white guitar with a skull head.

 

“Ernestina de la Cruz’s guitar…?” he whispered, filled with confusion.

 

“Mamá?”

 

Miguel turned to see Coco pointing at the picture in his hand.

 

“ _Mamá_?”

 

The boy’s eyes went wide as it dawned on him. Could it actually be possible that his idol was his great-great grandmother? “Mamá Coco, is Ernestina de la Cruz your… your _mamá_?”

 

“Mamá, _Mamá_!”

 

He immediately raced out of the room to his hideout, grabbing the record album with the cover of Ernestina de la Cruz holding her guitar. He compared the two photos, finding that it was an exact match.

 

His great-great grandmother was Ernestina de la Cruz.

 

His _great-great grandmother_ was Ernestina de la Cruz.

 

His great-great grandmother was _Ernestina de la Cruz!_

 

A theory ran through his mind - what if the real reason his great-great grandmother left was because she wanted to live out her dream and seize her moment, and so she did?

 

Miguel let out a joyful laugh. His idol turned out to be his great-great grandmother… music was in his blood. It was his _destiny!_

 

He raced onto the edge of the roof, overlooking the courtyard. The photo was in one hand, while the guitar was in the other. “Papá, Mamá! Sé quién es mi tatarabuela!”

 

“Miguel, get down from there!” Luisa called out in worry, not noticing the instrument in her son’s hands. “You might fall and hurt yourself!”

 

“Mamá Coco’s mother was Ernestina de la Cruz!”

 

“Who in the world is this Ernestina de la Cruz?” Enrique asked, confused by his son’s words.

 

Miguel threw off his leather apron, letting it fall to the ground as he struck a pose with his guitar. “ _Voy a ser músico_!”

 

* * *

 

All of Miguel’s music albums, video tapes and even his guitar were cast at his feet, while his whole family encircled him.

 

“What is all of this _basura_?” Elena demanded. “You hide things from your own family?”

 

“It’s not rubbish!” Miguel exclaimed in defense of his items. “It’s–”

 

“All that time he’s spent in the plaza!” Berto grumbled, interrupting his nephew.

 

“It filled his head with _crazy fantasies_!” Gloria shrieked, making insane gestures with his hands.

 

“It’s _not_ a fantasy!” Miguel defended himself. He handed his father the photo, pointing to the skull guitar. “This woman is _Ernestina de la Cruz,_ the most magnificent musician of all time. Don’t you realize what this means for us?”

 

“We barely know anything about this woman,” Enrique said as he looked at the photo, then pointed it at his son. “But whoever she was, she _abandoned_ her husband and daughter in their time of need – _her own family._ This no future for you.”

 

“But Papá, you said my family would guide me!” Miguel reminded him. “Well, Ernestina de la Cruz _is_ my family! The blood of a musician runs through my veins – it’s what I’m meant to be!”

 

“ _Nunca!_ That _puta’s_ music was a curse!” Elena yelled. “I will not allow any of it!”

 

“If you would just let me–”

 

“ _Miguel,_ ” Luisa said warningly.

 

“Enough of this! You will listen to your family,” Enrique said sternly. “ _No more music._ ”

 

“Tío Enrique, Tía Luisa, Abuelita,” Rosa tried to step in and speak up for her cousin. “Maybe we should listen to what Miguel has to–”

 

“ _Quiet_!” Elena shushed her, then turned back to Miguel.

 

“Just listen to me play,” Miguel begged, picking up the guitar. “You might–”

 

“ _End of discussion,_ ” his father cut him off.

 

Miguel was about to play his guitar when his grandmother snatched it away. "Do you want to end up like that woman?" she asked him, pointing to the torn part of the photo. "Forgotten by your family and left off their ofrenda?!"

 

"No me importa si estoy en alguna estúpida ofrenda!" Miguel yelled.

 

Gasps came from the family, some looking on in worry as Elena looked tense. She glanced at her grandson, then at the guitar in her hands. She lifted it into the air.

 

“No!”

 

“Mamá!”

 

“Abuelita!”

 

Ignoring the cries of her grandson, granddaughter and son, Elena smashed the guitar against the hard earth of the ground, breaking it into small bits and pieces of wood. “No hay guitarra, no hay más música,” she muttered, making a cross gesture.

 

Miguel’s eyes grew wet with tears, anger and despair at the injustice of everything bubbling inside of his chest. He felt like a volcano filled with lava, ready to erupt at any second.

 

Elena softened, cupping the boy’s cheek with her hand. “Come, mijo… you’ll feel better after having dinner with your family.”

 

“ _No_!” Miguel pushed her hand away, taking a few steps back. “I don’t want to be in this family, not when no one here cares about me! You all only care about looking out for yourselves!”

 

“Miguel–” Rosa started, trying to approach her cousin.

 

Miguel spun around to face his cousin, sneering at her. “ _Especially you, Rosa_!” He then snatched the photo away from his father, rushing out of the courtyard.

 

“ _Miguel_!” his father and cousin called out after him.

 

Miguel ignored their calls as he went straight for the plaza. When he got there, he went to the stage, where a woman stood with a clipboard in her hand. “Quiero jugar en la plaza, como hizo la Señora De la Cruz! Todavía puedo registrarme?”

 

“Got an instrument?”

 

“No…” The sight of his grandmother snatching his guitar away and smashing it flashed through his head. “But I could always borrow a guitar?”

 

“Sorry, kid, but musicians must bring their own instruments,” the stage manager replied, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Get yourself a guitar, kid. I’ll put you on the list.”

 

Moments later, Miguel approached every musician he could find, but all of them refused to let him use their guitar. Some of their refusals were kind, while others were as hostile as a rabid coyote.

 

Distraught and disheartened, Miguel found himself walking towards the statue of Ernestina de la Cruz. Tears began to build up in his eyes again as he looked up at the statue. “Oh, tatarabuela… what should I do?”

 

As to be expected, he received no direct answer. His gaze fell upon a plaque at the base of the statue that read _Seize your moment, and do not let it go!_

 

He looked at the photo in his hands, then at the skull head guitar, just as fireworks illuminated the skull head guitar that the statue held.

 

Soon, he got an idea.

 

* * *

 

Was it a reckless idea, breaking into his idol's crypt? Yes, but it was his only way of getting a guitar.

 

Miguel climbed onto the coffin, moving the lid a bit, only to stifle a gasp. He crawled over the marble tomb, facing the famous guitar. He wiped away some dust, revealing rich painted wood so shiny that he could see his own reflection.

 

"Señora de la Cruz," he began, looking up at her portrait, "please don't be angry with me. I'm Miguel, your daughter's bisnieto, your _tataranieto._ I really need to use your guitar." He took the guitar in his hands, not noticing how the marigold petals in the mausoleum began to glimmer. “Our family thinks music is a bad thing. They don't understand how good it can be, nor do they want to. But you would've understood - I _know_ you would've! Like you said, I shouldn't let my moment go – I have to seize it!” He backed away from the painting. “So if it’s fine with you, I’m going to play in the plaza like you did, all those years ago!”

 

With deep confidence, he strummed the guitar, causing marigold petals to swirl around him.

 

Not too long after, a light shined through the window.

 

“It’s gone! Somebody stole Ernestina de la Cruz’s guitar!”

 

“Look, the window’s broken, too!”

 

Miguel whirled around just as he heard keys jangling, followed by the door being unlocked. A guard stepped in with a flashlight.

 

“Show yourself, ladrón!”

 

“I – I’m sorry!” Miguel put the guitar down, then held his hands up. “It isn’t what it looks like! De la Cruz is–”

 

The guard walked straight through the boy, not even noticing him. The twelve year-old panicked and ran out of the mausoleum.

 

“Miguel!” his parents voices called out. “Come home!”

 

“Miguel, please come out!” Rosa’s voice followed soon after.

 

Miguel sprinted towards his parents and cousin, only to go straight through them.

 

He shuddered and fell to the ground. He looked at his hands. “Wh– _what’s happening to me_?”

 

Suddenly, Dante surprised him with a lick on the cheek.

 

“ _Dante_?!” Miguel began to breathe in and out. “You can see me?”

 

Dante barked, pointed and bounded through a crowd of– wait, were those _skeletons?_

 

Miguel shook his head, giving chase through until he ran right into a mustached skeleton and fell to the ground again. The skeleton’s bones fell apart, scattering across the ground. The head moved up.

 

“I’m so sorry,” the boy apologized quickly, attempting to gather and rearrange the bones.

 

“ _Miguel_?!” the skeleton’s head cried out.

 

“ _Miguel_?” a skeleton woman and man gasped as they turned to see the boy. The woman was in her mid-sixties and wore a pink dress with roses tucked into her hair, while the man was in his early forties and wore blue shirt, yellow pants and glasses with his hair tied into a ponytail along with a goatee.

 

The bones magically pulled away from Miguel, rearranging themselves back together. “Estás aquí! _AQUÍ_ aquí!” the mustached skeleton cried out. “ _Y nos puedes ver_?”

 

Miguel tilted his head a bit as he looked at the man, until the photo of his great-grandfather flashed through his mind. “Papá Julio?”

 

“Hola.”

 

He looked at the woman in pink. “Tía… Rosita?”

 

She beamed at him, waving her hand. “Sí!”

 

Finally, he looked at the younger man, who was straightening Julio’s head. “Tío Víctor?”

 

Víctor looked at his great-nephew, then stepped forward and took his face into his hands, feeling the boy’s chin. “He’s not dead,” he concluded, removing his hands from his nephew’s face. “If he were, then his face would be completely skeletal along with the rest of his body.”

 

“He’s not quite alive, though,” Rosita observed as a living person ambled through Miguel’s non-corporeal form.

 

Suddenly, twin skeletons ran towards the family, huffing out of exhaustion.

 

“Oye!” Felipe huffed out.

 

“It’s Papá Héctor–” Óscar began, although he was winded.

 

“–he couldn’t cross over the bridge!” his brother finished his sentence.

 

“He’s stuck–”

 

“–back in the Land of the Dead!”

 

The twins’ images flashed in Miguel’s memory. “Tío Felipe? Tío Óscar?”

 

“Hola, Miguel,” they greeted him, before their eyes went wide and they gasped in shock.

 

Víctor glanced at his uncles, then at Miguel. “I’m guessing you’re responsible for this,” he sighed wearily, his eyes narrowing.

 

“But if he can’t come to us–”

 

“–then we are going to him!” Julio interrupted, grabbing Miguel’s arm.

 

The family rushed to the edge of the cemetery, followed by Dante. They weaved through graves, rounding a corner until they finally came to a marigold bridge, glowing brighter than a lightbulb.

 

Miguel pulled his arm away from Julio’s hold, nervously taking a few steps back.

 

“It’s alright, Miguel,” Julio reassured him. “Come on.”

 

The boy began to follow after his family, the bridge's petals glowing beneath his feet with each step he took. 

 

Once again, Dante took off, and Miguel ran ahead of his family to catch up with the dog. "Dante!" He finally caught up to the dog, who was frolicking and rolling around in tge petals as though they were autumn leaves. "You gotta stop running off like that, boy. We don't know anything about this–  _woah_ …" 

 

The sparkling landscape of the realm's city emerged from the mist, leaving the boy in awe of how breathtaking, to the point where he didn't even notice his family catching up to him. 

 

"So it's all real, then," he murmured. "You're all really out there…"

 

"Did you actually think that after someone dies, they just disappear?" Víctor asked his nephew.

 

"Well, I dunno... maybe?" Miguel shrugged as he stood up, walking alongside his family. "I thought it was all made up – a story adults tell kids in order to keep them entertained, like the chupacabra."

 

Víctor rolled his eyes at his nephew's naive nature. Honestly, the child was  _twelve,_ and yet he still thought the chupacabra was just an old tale? "Miguel, the chupacabra is a real thing," he said bluntly. "What other creature can puncture a goat's neck with its teeth, and suck all of that blood?" 

 

“Well, now I’m thinking you might be right.”

 

As skeletons passed by in the other direction, Miguel received some strange looks as though he were a clown. A little skeleton girl gasped and pointed at him.

 

“Mija, it’s not nice to stare at–” her mother started, only to go wide-eyed upon seeing Miguel. “ _Ay, Santa María!_ ” She quickly began to walk away, dragging her daughter with her.

 

Miguel put up his hood, feeling a little bad because not only was it depressing to see a _dead child,_ but also because it was a sign that more reactions of fear were sure to come during his time here.

 

The Riveras continued on toward the arrivals area of the Marigold Grand Central Station on the far side of the bridge. Miguel saw a bunch of neon-colored creatures flying above, crawling and making nests in the rooftops of buildings nearby.

 

“Are those–?” Miguel stopped, squinting his eyes to make sure he was right. “ _Alebrijes!_ But aren’t those just sculptures?”

 

“Back in Santa Cecilia, yes,” Óscar answered. “But here, these alebrijes are _real spirit creatures._ ”

 

“They guide their master’s soul on their journey,” Rosita explained.

 

“Be careful though,” Felipe warned. “Some are _very_ hostile when provoked, especially Héctor’s alebrije.”

 

“It’s best you don’t run into Pepita, lest you should have a heart attack,” Víctor added.

 

They got to the far edge of the bridge, entering a line for re-entry.

 

“Welcome back!” an agent greeted a traveler. “Anything to declare?”

 

“Some churros from my family,” the traveler replied.

 

“How wonderful! Next!”

 

In the line nearby, skeletons exited the Land of the Dead through a gate marked _Departures._ Miguel watched.

 

“Next family, please!” a departures agent called out.

 

An elderly couple stepped in front of a camera-mounted monitor. The monitor scanned their faces, returning an image of their photos on an altar in the Land of the Living.

 

“Oh, your photos are on your son’s ofrenda,” the departures agent told them. “Have a great visit!”

 

“Gracias,” the couple thanked her.

 

The couple united with the rest of their family. They all stepped onto the bridge, which began to glow as they gained footing.

 

“Next!”

 

A woman of age twenty-two stepped up to the monitor dressed as Agustín Lara, complete with a wig and a cigar in her hand. “Soy yo, _Agustín Lara,_ ” she declared, trying to make her voice sound deeper. “Forget the scanner. I have photos on the ofrendas of so many composers out there – it’ll just drown your devil box with images.”

 

The monitor scanned her, but she received a negative buzzing sound in response.

 

“Oh, shoot,” the departures agent said as she looked at the scanner. “Looks like no one put up your photo, _Agustín._ ”

 

The woman took off her wig, revealing ebony hair tied in a lower braided bun with purple ribbons. She then threw off the suit, which in turn revealed a slightly shabby dark green dress and a lighter green poncho around her neck. She wore Mary Janes on her feet, and one of her legs appeared to be wrapped in a bandage.

  
  
“Perhaps I lied a little when I said I was Agustín,” the woman began. “And I understand that lying is bad. _However,_ I can’t bring myself to apologize, since you won’t let me cross the bridge all because of that _devil box_!”

 

“No photo on the ofrenda, no crossing the bridge,” the departures agent said simply.

 

“ _Mamabicho,_ ” the poncho woman growled. Then, she raced towards the bridge, pushing past the security guard who was blocking it. “ _JAJA!_ ” she laughed triumphantly, looking back at the guards who had begun to give chase. “So long, _putos_!” She looked forward, reaching the bridge at a sprint–

 

–only to sink right into the petals, as no magic engaged.

 

“No, _no_ – I’m so close! Come on, devil flowers! _Work_ –”

 

The guards strolled to the bridge and picked her up by the arms, dragging her back.

 

“ _Honestly,_ what did I expect?” the poncho woman grumbled to herself. “ _Curse that damned devil box!_ ”

 

Miguel watched as the guards pulled her away, feeling a little sympathetic. He wasn’t able to dwell on it any further though as Rosita grabbed his arm, telling him it was their turn.

 

“Bienvenidos de nuevo, amigos!” the arrivals agent greeted the Riveras as they stepped up to his booth. “Alguna declaración a realizar?”

 

“De hecho… sí,” Julio answered slowly, stepping to the side as Víctor and the twins pushed Miguel forward, showing off the boy’s living features, which contrasted against everyone else’s skeletal appearances.

 

“Hola.”

 

The agent’s jaw dropped onto the counter in shock.

 

* * *

 

“All I wanted was to spend some time with mi papá and mi tía,” Víctor rambled as he and his family were escorted across an arching second floor walkway. “That’s all I wished for. Nothing big or fancy, just some quality family time.” Then, he gestured to Miguel. “But  _no,_ we had to get stuck playing 'babysitter' for mi sobrino!”

 

“Calm down, Teto,” Rosita tried to soothe her nephew. “It’s okay.”

 

“ _‘Teto?’_ ” Miguel couldn’t help but snicker at the nickname, but stopped as soon as his uncle shot him a glare.

 

Meanwhile, Óscar seemed to be staring at Miguel’s face in deep contemplation. “Oh, what I’d give to have a nose again and to smell things naturally,” he sighed.

 

The family passed through doors inscribed with _Department of Family Reunions._ Inside the department, case workers were helping travelers sort out their messes – however, one traveler in particular stood out to the Riveras.

 

“Tell me, who is the manager of this place?” a seventy year-old man demanded. He wore a dark purple shirt with red pants, and a brown apron was wrapped around the area where his belt would be. His hair was dark brown, with a single white streak in it. “I must speak to him!”

 

“I’m sorry, señor,” the case worker apologized, wincing at the harsh tone of his voice. “But no one put up your photo–”

 

“Mi familia _loves me,_ ” the man said in a low voice. “There’s never, _ever_ been a time where they’ve taken it off.” He coldly eyed the Macintosh 128k on the worker’s desk. “That useless _blinky-thingy_ is clearly glitching out!”

 

“Um, Papá Héctor?” Julio spoke up, approaching his father-in-law from behind.

 

Héctor turned, his gaze softening as he saw his family. “Mi familia! Thank goodness you’re here! The blinky-thingy keeps saying my photo isn’t up, but you know that in all of the forty-six years I’ve been dead, my photo has always been on the ofrenda.” He pointed to the worker. “Please tell this _woman_ that her blinky-thingy has got everything mixed up!”

 

“About that…” Julio chuckled nervously. “We… weren’t able to get to the ofrenda.”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“Papá’s right, Abuelito,” Víctor chimed in. “We got a little sidetracked along the way, and ran into a certain someone.”

 

The group moved aside, revealing Miguel standing there.

 

“ _Miguel?_ ” Héctor gasped upon seeing his great-great grandson.

 

Miguel almost immediately recognized the man, his photo flashing in his mind. He didn’t know whether to be weirded out by the fact that Papá Héctor and Tío Víctor looked so similar to one another to the point where they were almost like twins, _or_ to be terrified that he was facing his great-great grandfather – the former family patriarch, who had started up the business after enforcing the music ban a century ago. “P-P- _Papá Héctor_ …”

 

“ _What is going on here?_ ”

 

Just then, a door nearby opened and a clerk stepped out. “Eres la familia Rivera?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i take back what i said about the previous chapter being longer than expected – because _this_ chapter turned out to be 4,773 words in total, even though it’s a second chapter. 
> 
> some notes:
> 
>   1. i realize the appropriate term for an unmarried woman in mexico is “señorita” – however, i feel as though a woman with such a high position and maturity like ernestina wouldn’t take too kindly to a term like that, as it feels a little childish. i have an aunt on my mother’s side who never married, yet wanted to be called señora because being referred to as señorita made her feel infantilized. so, ernestina is referred to as señora in this fic even if she never married.
>   2. elena referring to her grandmother as “puta” is harsh, yes – but there’s the fact that older people do not tolerate things like walkaway musicians, and they don’t really care about swearing around children older than 10 in most cases. i speak from experience, as i’ve met a lot of elderly catholic women who swore worse than sailors. and rosa stepping in for miguel is basically me wanting to throw the girl a bone, along with trying to justify whatever mentions of her will appear in later chapters.
>   3. i’ve realized that víctor might come off as a little… rude to some, but he’s just a little exasperated with the situation. i mean, he wanted to spend some time with his father and aunt – and suddenly, he’s stuck having to travel back because his nephew’s somehow there, and his grandfather can’t even come over so he and his family have to come to him. i’ll also just say here that his design was not by me, but by k-chips in a private convo where we talked about genderbends and stuff, suggesting ideas for designs and the like.
>   4. the chupacabra thing wasn’t really planned out at first, but i thought it’d be a nice little deviation from the vitamins thing while still running along the lines of a nice comparison between things a child wouldn’t believe but are actually true – and yes, i totally believe that a creature like the chupacabra can exist. i mean, those holes in the goats’ necks didn’t poke themselves.
>   5. i know i could’ve had imelda dress up as frida, but i wanted to do something different – so, i had her crossdress as agustín lara. why, you may ask? partially because he’s one of the mexican celebrities that served as an inspiration for héctor’s character with his composing skills (while cantinflas served as an inspiration for héctor’s personality), and also because he’s an artist who is just as loved as frida is. i might’ve also taken inspiration from the scene in mulan where she tries to imitate a dude before heading into training camp – either way, it was a fun idea i had. and yes, agustín will appear later as promised in the tags.
>   6. as for imelda’s design: it is based on the papel picado opening where she’s in a poncho and a simple dress, while the colors were taken from a fanart (which i unfortunately can no longer find :c). the shoes were added because i think imelda would be the type to refuse being barefoot, to the point where she picks a pair of shoes that are absolutely not her type. all in all, i got inspired by cindrella in a way – i mean, dressed nicely so she passes as pretty, but it’s still clear she’s not really doing all that good.
>   7. imelda’s pretty vulgar, but she’s pretty justified in it. as for the “colorful” language used: _mamabicho_ is the mexican and puerto rican (aka my home country) equivalent of _mamahuevo_ which means “cocksucker” in spanish. _puto_ is literally another way of saying _puta_. and imelda cursing out the devil box will never stop being funny.
>   8. ‘teto’ is a diminutive of both the names víctor and héctor. it also ties in with a headcanon i have, which will be explained later on. ;)
>   9. the ‘blinky-thingy’ thing was kept because it was just as funny as devil box, and also because it’s such a héctor thing to say. as for héctor's relation to the twins, they're probably going to be brothers in this fic, since them being imelda's siblings would imply they turned against their sister and that just crushes the soul 😭
> 

> 
> hope y’all liked this chapter, and happy early new year!


	3. blessings, conditions and new friends (oh my!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 2019! here's another chapter.

The clerk flipped through some papers. “I pulled out the record and it says here that you, uhhh – _ooh boy! You robbed a grave?!_ ”

 

The family gasped in shock at the fact that _their little Miguelito_ would even do such a thing.

 

“We’ve raised a monster!” Víctor cried out.

 

“And of all nights,” the clerk added. “Día de los Muertos is a night to _give_ to the dead. You _robbed_ a dead person – raided their tomb as though it were a piñata full of candy!”

 

“I’m _not_ a graverobber!” Miguel tried to defend himself against the clerk’s accusations. “I was only trying to borrow the guitar, not steal it!”

 

“ _Guitar_ ?” Héctor raised an eyebrow. Usually, he held a huge disdain towards graverobbers, but he could make an exception for the boy as he was only twelve and not really mature enough to understand the severity of his crime – but the fact that it was a _guitar_ he stole was questionable, at the very least.

 

“The guitar was my great-great grandmother’s,” Miguel continued. “Therefore, it’s only fit that I have it. It’s what she would’ve wanted.”

 

“ _Chamaco,_ we do not speak of that _música_ ,” Héctor growled, his voice filled with bitterness. “She left this family a long time ago. It’s best not to bring up ghosts of the past.”

 

“Technically, you’re all ghosts,” Miguel pointed out.

 

Dante placed his paws on the edge of the clerk’s desk, lapping his tongue out at the strawberry-flavored donuts.

 

“ _Achoo!_ ” the clerk sneezed. He straightened up his glasses and asked, “Who does this alebrije belong to?”

 

“Oh, Dante?” Miguel went and grabbed the xolo, holding the dog in his arms. “He’s just a stray who follows me around sometimes.”

 

“He certainly doesn’t have any traits of an alebrije,” Rosita noted, gesturing to some alebrijes flying around on the other side of the window.

 

“He looks more like a kangaroo,” Óscar joked.

 

Felipe nodded, then bumped shoulders with his brother. “Or a half-breed chupacabra!”

 

“I don’t care what breed he is, because I am– _ACHOO!_ Terribly allergic to dogs in general.” The clerk readjusted his glasses, looking displeased at the xolo.

 

“But Dante is hairless…”

 

“And I have no nose, yet here we are – _ACHOOO!_ ”

 

“But that’s not really an explanation why the blinky-thingy kept saying my photo wasn’t on the ofrenda!” Héctor exclaimed, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

 

“ _Oh._ ” Miguel reached into one of his pockets, pulling out Héctor’s photo and unfolding it. “My bad…”

 

“ _WHAAAT?!_ ” Héctor’s eyes dropped into his mouth. He popped them back up with a punch to his jaw upon hearing the grossed out noises coming from his great-great grandson. Then, he got all up in the boy’s face. “ _You removed my photo from the ofrenda?_ ”

 

“I – I didn’t mean to! The photo just fell, so I kept in my pocket so that it’d be safe, honest!”

 

Héctor turned to the clerk. “There’s a way to send him back, right?”

 

The clerk nodded. “There is a way to send the boy back, yes. As this curse is tied in with family, the way to undo the curse is for a family member to give him their blessing. Everything should go back to normal after that, but you _gotta_ do it before sunrise!”

 

“What happens after sunrise?” Miguel asked nervously.

 

“Híjole! _Your hand!_ ” Julio cried out, noticing that the tip of one of the boy’s fingers was now bone.

 

Miguel raised his hand to his face, noticing that one of his fingers was slowly turning into bone. He felt light-headed, nearly fainting in his great-grandfather’s arms.

 

“Don’t go fainting on us now, Miguel!” Julio said, lightly slapping the boy back into consciousness.

 

The clerk got out from behind his desk and searched the ground. “Cempasúchil, cempasúchil… _aha!_ Perdón, señorita.” Rosita giggled delightedly as the clerk pulled a marigold petal from the ends of her dress.

 

Meanwhile, Víctor crossed his arms and scoffed, unamused by the sight.

 

The clerk handed the petal to Héctor. "Now, you look at the living and say his name."

 

Héctor looked at the boy. "Miguel," he said blankly.

 

"Now say _I give you my blessing._ "

 

"I give you my blessing," Héctor repeated, causing the marigold petal to glow in his fingers. He knew that he could easily just send the boy home now, _but_ he wasn't done just yet. "I give you my blessing to go home…" The petal's glowing increased. "To put my photo back up…" The petal glowed brighter and brighter with each condition that was added, and the boy just kept on nodding at the sight of it, not paying any mind to the older man's tone. “And to _put an end to this stupid musical fantasy!_ ”

 

Miguel backed away from the petal, shaking his head. “ _What?!_ You can’t just do that!”

 

“Actually, he can,” the clerk clarified.

 

“ _Fine,_ ” Miguel grumbled, rolling his eyes.

 

“Then you hand the petal to Miguel.”

 

Héctor seemed almost smug as he extended the petal to the boy. Perhaps he was being a little harsh, but he was only trying to make sure the kid wouldn’t end up like _her_ – especially since he inherited so many qualities from her, including that spirited attitude of his. That boy had to learn, one way or another.

 

Miguel took the petal, and was soon consumed by a whirlwind of petals. In seconds, he found himself back in Ernestina’s tomb. He patted up and down his body, letting out a sigh of relief that everything was back to normal. He looked out the window, seeing that there weren’t any skeletons to be seen.

 

He turned and eyed his idol’s guitar, then quickly grabbed it. “Plaza de mariachi, aquí voy!”

 

But as he was about to run to the plaza, he crashed into the clerk’s desk. He turned, smiling sheepishly as he saw that his deceased family had seen him.

 

“ _Confound it, chamaco!_ ” Héctor hollered, gripping his hair in frustration as he marched over to his grandson. “You had one simple rule to follow! _One rule,_ and you broke it!”

 

“Your rule is unfair! It’s my life, and I should be able to live it the way I want to!” Miguel exclaimed, pushing past his grandfather. “You’ve already lived your life, so stop trying to control mine!” He picked up another petal from the ground, walking towards his other family members. “Papá Julio, may I have your blessing?”

 

Julio pulled his hat over his face, shrinking back from the petal.

 

“Tía Rosita?”

 

Like her brother, she shied away from the petal.

 

“Tío Óscar? Tío Felipe?”

 

They hid behind one another, trying to shield themselves from the petal as they had no plans of facing the patriarch's anger tonight.

 

“Tío Víctor?”

 

“Not a chance, muchacho,” Víctor refused, shaking his head, making Miguel wonder what he even expected. “What Abuelo says _goes._ ”

 

“Don’t act so difficult, chamaco,” Héctor spoke, exhaustion visible in his words and in the way he walked over to his grandson. He wasn't always like this, so tired and strict – but having to deal with raising a child alone after his wife abandoned him left some effects, with this being one of them. “The only way to get back home is my way. You’re just going to have to accept that.”

 

“ _Why do you hate music so much_ ?” Miguel asked his grandfather, wanting to _why_ his grandfather was being so hard on him.

 

“You will _not_ be going down the same path _she_ did,” Héctor replied, in a tone so harsh that he barely managed to keep his voice below a shout. “No grandchild of mine is going to end up like _her._ ”

 

 _The same path she did_ echoed in the boy's mind, making him drop the petal as he reached into his pockets. He pulled the photo out, turning away from the group as he became lost in thought. "She's family," he whispered, gazing at the woman with no face.

 

"Listen to what your Papá Héctor is saying," Víctor said softly, placing a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "He knows what's best for you."

 

"That's right," Óscar agreed with his great-nephew. "He's only trying to look out for you."

 

"Be reasonable," Rosita said, trying to smile.

 

Miguel backed away towards the door. "S-sorry," he stammered, thinking over what excuse he was going to make. "I – really gotta use the bathroom. I'll be quick, though!"

 

He left the room, shutting the door behind him before making a run for it. He dashed down the stairs with Dante following him, pulling the dog into a small space underneath the staircase. He looked up and saw his family talking to an officer about him… and the revolving door exit was so far from where he was.

 

He pulled his hoodie over his head and tightened it, then walked towards the door just as an announcement about a ‘living boy’ was made over the speakers. “If I ever want to be a musician, then I’m going to need the blessing of one,” he muttered. “We have to find my great-great grandmother, boy.”

 

“Hold it, muchacho,” an officer ordered, forcing him to turn around. He yelped as he saw the boy’s face, his hands fishing for his walkie-talkie. “He encontrado al niño vivo!”

 

But as he was reporting his finding, a large crowd of people walked between them, giving Miguel a chance to escape. So, he made a break for it.

 

Miguel hid behind a wall, watching as the officer left to get some help. Then, Dante suddenly wandered off further into the building – to another room.

 

“Dante!” Miguel followed the dog, grabbing his tail as an attempt to stop him. “You really gotta stop running off like that.”

 

“Disturbing the peace, fleeing an officer, faking an identity…”

 

Miguel took a peek through the window, recognizing the poncho woman from earlier being chastised by an officer.

 

“So crossdressing is illegal now?” the poncho woman asked, a bit of sass in her tone.

 

“No, but trying to impersonate a celebrity in order to sneak around _is,_ ” the corrections officer answered. “You really need to start acting right.”

 

“You’re right – I _do_ need to start acting right,” the poncho woman said, suddenly changing her tone to one filled with mock emotion. “Tell you what, I’ll start acting right _and_ I’ll try to make up for all your troubles.” She noticed a poster of De la Cruz. “I see you’re a fan of De la Cruz. She and I have had this history together, since 1905! I can get you a ticket to her Sensational Sunrise show – all you have to do is let me cross the bridge.”

 

Miguel became a little interested at the mention of De la Cruz. Maybe, _just maybe,_ this woman was the key to finding his great-great grandmother.

 

“I oughta lock you up for the rest of the holiday,” the officer started. “ _But_ my shift is almost up, and I wanna visit my living family… so, I’ll let you off with a warning.”

 

The poncho woman took the note and stood back up, but stopped as she remembered something. “Can you at least give me back the suit?”

 

“Hmm, let me think about it… _no._ ”

 

“ _Pinche cabrón,_ ” she growled as she stormed out of the room.

 

Miguel followed after the woman out of the Department of Corrections, into the halls. “Hey,” he tried to get her attention. “ _Hey!_ Is it true that you know Ernestina de la Cruz?”

 

“Why do you ask that–” The poncho woman turned, freezing up as her eyes fell upon the boy. “ _Ay dios mío,_ niño! You’re an actual _living_ child!”

 

“ _Quiet!_ ” Miguel shushed her as he grabbed her garment, dragging her into a phone booth nearby to avoid drawing any attention. “ _Sí, estoy vivo_ – and if I’m ever gonna get back to the Land of the Living, I’m going to need De la Cruz’s blessing.”

 

The poncho woman looked him up and down, squinting her eyes in disbelief. “Why do you specifically need _her blessing?_ Why can’t you get someone else’s?”

 

“She’s my _tatara abuela,_ ” Miguel replied.

 

“She’s your _what?_ ” She began to ponder over it. “Just give me a second, chico…” It was possible that the boy could be Ernestina’s great-great grandson – after all, the woman had so many past lovers that it was almost _impossible_ for her to have not gotten knocked up by at least one of them. And the boy is heading back to the Land of the Living, which means that he’ll be able to put up her photo… “Okay, chico, let’s make a deal: if you help me out, then I’ll help you out. We’ll do each other a service – a trade, if you will.”

 

The boy beamed at her, nodding his head. “Sounds good to me!”

 

They stepped out of the booth, and the poncho woman held her hand out. “Soy Imelda,” she told him her name.

 

Suddenly, Miguel heard a familiar voice yell out his name.

 

“ _Miguel Julio Rivera Ocampos!_ ”

 

“Soy Miguel,” he said quickly, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the exit.

 

Imelda tried her best to keep up with the boy. “Slow down, _gatito_!” she yelled, pulling her arm away as they were far enough from the building. “How is it that a child of your age runs so fast?”

 

Miguel stopped himself, looking back at her. “It’s just how I run, _plus_ I’m kind of in a rush right now.”

 

“Well then, _apresurémonos, gatito,_ ” Imelda ushered him, and they ran off into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, the Riveras pushed themselves out of the revolving doors. Most of them stumbled to the ground, while Héctor still stood. “ _Ay, ay, ay_ – this boy and his stubbornness,” he griped, knowing very well that the child had inherited that trait from his great-great grandmother. It made him wonder what traits he _didn’t_ inherit from her. “I’m going to need some help tracking him down… _Pepita!_ ” He put two fingers to his mouth, letting out a piercing whistle.

 

A giant, colorful winged feline – with a ram’s horns, an iguana-like tail and an eagle’s hindlegs with talons – landed in front of the patriarch.

 

“ _Buena gata._ ” Héctor patted his alebrije’s muzzle, then turned to the rest of the family. “Who’s got the petal Miguel grabbed?”

 

Julio stepped forward with the marigold petal, shaking as he held it out for Pepita. “N-nice alebrije…”

 

Pepita sniffed at the petal, then let out a loud roar as she took off into the sky with its scent fresh in mind.

 

Héctor looked up to the sky, watching as his alebrije flew away. _You will not take the same road she took,_ he thought to himself. _Not if I have anything to say about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes for this chapter (because apparently this is gonna be a thing now):
> 
>   1. the revelation of miguel stealing the guitar was based off the junior novelization, where victoria literally cries out “we’ve raised a monster” while the clerk is slightly more blunt – though we all know that vico is the bluntest of them all. still, it was very funny so obviously i went with it – along with the clerk plucking the petal from rosita’s dress and víctor being just done. like i said in the beginning: author’s rights.
>   2. again, more dialogue changes for some jokes with the whole “what kind of weird breed is dante” thing. héctor’s eyeballs dropping into his mouth was too funny though, so i kept it in. the clerk calling rosita “señorita” is because she has no husband, therefore there’s no reason to use “señora” cause she certainly ain’t in the same case as ernestina lmao.
>   3. originally, héctor was gonna say “damn it, chamaco” but then i realized that he wouldn’t be the type to curse around a child, so i changed it. he’s too pure for that, anyway. i also changed the “you go home my way or no way” because i think he’d try softening the phrase, because kids mostly follow the rules if they’re said in a ‘kinder’ manner.
>   4. _pinche_ translates to "fucking" and depending on the usage, _cabrón_ can translate to either "bastard" (as a subtle way of saying _bastardo_ ) or "motherfucker." i personally prefer the latter definition in this case, because it's funnier imo.
>   5. i could’ve had imelda keep referring to miguel as “chico”, yes, _but_ i found the idea of her referring to him as _gatito_ (aka “little cat”) to be cuter.
> 

> 
> hope ya enjoyed this chapter! :D


	4. to blend in (ft. agustín lara, frida kahlo and chelo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter's got very explicit language as imelda's got the mouth of a sailor. in general though, she's the epitome of the “kick his ass, baby. i got yo flower” meme but without the flower.

Underneath a large stone bridge, Miguel and Imelda sat together on two wooden crates, with the latter carefully applying black and white paint to the boy’s face as an attempt to make him look like an ordinary skeleton.

 

“Look up, gatito,” she instructed. “If you fidget, the paint will smudge and skin will show – and of course we can’t have that now, can we?”

 

The boy sat still for a few minutes, allowing the woman to finish painting his face.

 

“And _viola!_ ” Imelda opened up a small mirror, handing it to the boy. “You’ve officially joined the invisible choir.”

 

Miguel looked into the mirror, examining the fine paint job. There were black circles around his eyes, making them seem like hollow sockets. Along with the dark circles were dots on his cheeks, identical to the markings every skeleton in the Land of the Dead had.

 

"Listen, Miguel," Imelda began. "The rules of the Land of the Dead are vastly different than those in the Land of the Living. When you pass onto this world, your family puts your photo up on their ofrenda. This means that you're well-remembered, and you'll get to cross the bridge on Día de Muertos – the only time of year where the dead can visit their ancestors." A frown formed on her lips. "Well, unless of course, you're like a magnet for misfortune."

 

"How come other people are able cross over, but you can't?" Miguel asked her in a soft tone.

 

"Nobody's bothered to put up my photo," she answered, then pulled out her picture from one of her pockets, giving it to him. "But you can bring me some good luck by changing that!"

 

Miguel looked over the photo in his hands, holding it up to his face. In the picture, Imelda didn't look very different than she did now, aside from the obvious fact that she had flesh in it along with different clothing – still, she looked very lovely. " _Muy guapa,_ " he complimented as he looked away from the photo to the dead woman currently standing in front of him.

 

Imelda grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. "Indeed – I was quite the looker back then, wasn't I?"

 

"So you get me to my _tatara abuela,_ then I put your photo up after she gives me her blessing?" Miguel recited the plan.

 

Imelda bobbed her head up and down, beaming at him. “ _Qué chico tan inteligente!_ Sí! What a wonderful idea, _sí!_ ” Her smile then faded. “There’s only one issue with this plan: it is a _strenuous_ task to get to Ernestina, and I've got to get across that bridge _this evening._ So, do you have any other family members here that have a little more… _time,_ on their hands?”

 

Miguel stiffened at her question, looking away for a few seconds. He knew very well that if he told her about his other family members, then his chances at becoming a musician were over. He’d have to kiss music goodbye, and say hello to crafting shoes. “Mmm, _nope!_ ” he lied, the words coming out of his mouth a little too quickly.

 

Imelda gave him a look of suspicion, which reminded him of his grandmother a bit. “You better not be lying to me now, gatito,” she warned him, sounding doubtful. “Because if you are, then I _swear_ –”

 

“The only family I have here is De la Cruz.” He stood up, giving the photo back to the woman. “But if you can’t help me find her, then that’s fine. I’ll find her all by myself, on my lonely lonesome.” He let out a whistle, signaling for Dante to follow him.

 

She let out a groan, going after the boy. “Fine, gatito, _fine!_ I’ll get you to your tatara abuela!”

 

* * *

 

They walked together, making their way through the busy streets while holding hands.

 

"It won't be so simple as going to your aunt's house and knocking on her door," Imelda cautioned the twelve year-old. "She's a busy woman, always planning these big events and fancy parties. She doesn't have time for simple fans." _Much less her own friend,_ she bitterly added to herself. When De la Cruz had died, she had only met up with her once – and it had been such a quick meeting, leaving Imelda with little time to bring up the fact that her friend had practically stolen her songs. She knew _why_ Ernestina kept her distance, though that didn't lessen how betrayed she felt.

 

Miguel was about to nod when he noticed a billboard nearby. He ran over to peer over a balcony, getting a better glimpse at the glowing advertisement below. " _Ernestina de la Cruz's Sensational Sunrise!_ Qué madre!"

 

" _Ugh._ " Imelda's face scrunched up in disgust as she stood next to him, placing her arms on the railing. "Every year, your tatara abuela puts on this huge lackluster performance to mark the end of the holiday."

 

"And you've got tickets for the show, right?" Miguel questioned, grinning at he tugged at her arm in excitement.

 

Imelda winced and gritted her teeth, feeling guilty as she saw how excited the child was, reminding her of how enthusiastic her husband used to be. The way his eyes lightening up reminded her of her love, and even her little girl – which made it all the more harder to tell the truth. "Errr… _about that_ …"

 

"Hey, you said you could get a ticket to her show!"

 

“Yes, well – that was a lie,” Imelda admitted. “I didn’t even get a backstage pass, much less an invitation…”

 

Miguel pouted. This woman was his only way of getting to his great-great grandmother, yet she didn’t even have a way to get to her performance?

 

“Don’t get your shirt in a knot, gatito,” she said, patting his head as she began to walk away. “I can still get you to her.”

 

“ _How?_ ” he asked her witheringly.

 

“I happen to know the location of where her rehearsals take place!” she stated confidently. Upon turning to the boy, she saw the skeptical look on his face. “ _Seriously,_ I do.”

 

“How do you know where she’s rehearsing?”

 

“I used to have a job as a tour guide a while back,” she gave him an explanation. “My route went through all of the locations she’d appear at, until her security guard told me that she wanted me to tour somewhere else, and I decided to respect her wishes as an old amiga of hers.” A sour look appeared on her face. “Now, the business is over because all anyone here wants to see is the _oh so wonderful_ Ernestina de la Cruz in all of her _‘fabulousness.’_ ”

 

“Oh…” Miguel grimaced in guilt, now having an idea of what the woman’s problem with De la Cruz was and why she trash-talked her. “Okay then, take me to her rehearsal.”

 

Her bravado returned in seconds. “Follow me, gatito!”

 

* * *

 

Imelda led Miguel to a large warehouse. The boy watched as the woman took off one of her shoes, throwing up high and hitting the window – which, luckily enough, didn't break when the shoe met its glass.

 

A red-haired woman was working on a costume when she heard the sound of something hitting the window. She turned away from the costume and saw a shoe outside of the windowsill. The dressmaker went to open the window, smiling as she saw the woman below. "Well, well, well – if it isn't my favorite crossdressing costume model!" She tossed the shoe back to Imelda and then turned the crank, lowering the ladder so that the woman and her companions could climb up.

 

Imelda slipped her shoe back on, following Miguel as he and Dante went up the ladder. They all crawled in through the window, with the boy saying a small "Hola" before going off to the side along with his dog.

 

"Um, Ceci," Imelda began, rubbing her hand nervously. "The guards confiscated my suit."

 

"They _what?_ " Ceci's eyes went wide for a few seconds, before she scowled. "Those _puta madres_ –" she stopped however, upon catching the look of shame on her friend's face. "Don't worry, mi amiga. You're not to blame for this – you were merely trying to cross again, but suffered from bad luck."

 

"It's like I'm the queen of failure," Imelda sighed, sadly shaking her head. "Perhaps, I'm just never meant to find peace."

 

"You shouldn't say that. I'm sure you'll cross that bridge _one day._ "

 

While the two were talking, Miguel slipped away as Dante ran off. “Maldita sea! _Dante!_ ” He followed him through the warehouse, passing a bunch of different artists’ workspaces… and lord, did his face heat up at seeing a nude female skeleton posing for Diego Rivera.

 

He knew he most likely shouldn't be here, and that Imelda was probably going to put him in a harness to make sure he wouldn't wander away again once she found him.

 

Suddenly, a quetzal alebrije flew over to Dante, pecking the dog’s head. The dog retaliated by trying to bite the bird’s tail, making the alebrije fly away in an attempt to escape the dog’s wrath. Then, a monkey alebrije leapt on top of Dante, riding the dog like he was a horse from one of De la Cruz’s old films, knocking over several items in the process.

 

“No, Dante!” Miguel leapt forward, catching the dog in his arms while the monkey jumped up onto the shoulders of its owner, just as its feathered friend had rested upon her owner's arm. The boy's eyes widened as he looked up, seeing that the alebrijes' owners were the _real_ Agustín Lara and Frida Kahlo, whom he had learned many things about in his history class.

 

Agustín turned, noticing the boy’s presence. “Frida, I believe we have a visitor,” he remarked.

 

Frida gasped and spun around, facing the living boy. “How did you get here?”

 

“Perdóneme, I don’t mean to intrude,” the boy tried to excuse himself. “It’s just that Señor Lara’s bird was pecking at my dog, and then your monkey rode him over here…”

 

Agustín’s brow furrowed as he looked to his bird. “ _Carolina,_ ” he scolded softly, causing the bird to chirp in faux-innocence.

 

“Your dog? _Oooh!_ ” Her eyes went wide as plates upon seeing Dante. She bent over and took his head into her hands, examining him in an affectionate manner. “ _El poderoso perro xolo!_ Guider of all wandering spirits… and whose spirit have you led to me?”

 

Miguel stepped back, weirded out by the fact that one of Mexico’s most famous artists was awed by a mere stray. “I don’t think he’s a spirit guide, señora.”

 

“Ah, ah, ah.” She waved a finger at him, smirking a little. “The alebrijes of this world can take many forms… they are as mysterious as they are powerful. Take my little Citlalee, for example…” Her monkey’s colors changed rapidly, before it breathed out a blue flame. Dante, on the other hand… was chewing his own leg and choking on it. “Or maybe you’re right, and he’s just an average dog,” the painter accepted. She wrapped an arm around Miguel, seating him down on a bench. “ _Ven,_ we need your eyes and ears. Tú eres el público.” 

 

With the clap of her hands, the lights went out. “Darkness…” She lit up a match, its light illuminating her facial features. “And from the darkness, a giant papaya.”

 

Miguel thought she was joking at first, yet there it was: the biggest papaya he had ever seen in his entire life.

 

“Dancers emerge from the papaya, and the dancers are all me!”

 

Indeed, unibrowed dancers in leotards emerged from the papaya – a sight that would forever haunt Miguel’s dreams for the whole month.

 

“And like _pequeño_ _bebés_ they go to drink from the milk of their mother who is a cactus, but who is also me!”

 

The whole scene definitely did seem to fit the general theme Frida had going on with her works, though that didn’t make it less unsettling for the boy.

 

“And the milk is not milk, but tears.” Frida turned to Miguel, looking unsure. “Is it too obvious?”

 

“Creo que es la cantidad justa de obvio?” Miguel fibbed slightly, not sure of how to respond to her question. He looked to Agustín. “You said you wanted my ears too, though… so, maybe you could add a little intro to it? Similar to a drum’s beat, but piano style?”

 

Agustín snapped his fingers, realizing that the boy was onto something. “Of course!” He went to playing a few keys, making it sound as though it were music for an upcoming action film.

 

“ _Oh!_ And then you could try and write a song about De la Cruz to sing along with the intro, and play a _dun-duun-duuuun-duuuuuuuun_ sound at the end after hitting a high note, signalling for the other musicians to begin!”

 

“Ah, yes – _por supuesto!_ How did I not think of that sooner?” Agustín pulled out a notebook, starting to write in it while humming to himself.

 

“And as for the other musicians?” Frida asked, prompting for the boy to go on.

 

“They could add, like, _doonk-doonk-doonk-doonk!_ ”

 

Frida’s eyes focused on Miguel while she snapped her fingers at some of the musicians in the corner, cueing for them to play the tune.

 

“Then the violins could go _dittleittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittledittle-ittle_ – _WHAAAAA!_ With a loud trombone punctuating at the end!”

 

The musicians followed the boy’s instructions yet again, creating the sounds.

 

“And… what if everything was on fire?” Frida proposed zealously. The dancers, on the other hand, seemed concerned about the idea. “ _Yes!_ Fire everywhere!” She put a hand under Miguel’s chin. “ _Inspirado!_ Tú… tienes el espíritu de un _artista._ ”

 

“Not only that, but you have the skills of a _musician,_ ” Agustín added, glancing away from his writing to look at the boy.

 

Miguel was enlivened by their praises. To think, two of Mexico’s most beloved celebrities thought that he was skillful at the arts of music.

 

Frida went back to the rehearsal. “The dancers exit, the music fades, the lights go out and Ernestina de la Cruz ascends to the stage!”

 

Miguel was on the edge of his seat as a silhouette rose up – only for the lights to come on, revealing that it was just a doll made out of fruit and random utensils. “ _Huh?_ ”

 

“She performs a couple of songs, the sun rises, the audience cheers–”

  
Miguel carefully walked up to Frida. “Disculpa, but where is the _actual_ Ernestina de la Cruz at? I thought she'd be here…”

 

“Ernestina doesn’t do rehearsals,” Frida said, sounding very irritated at the mere mention of the musician. “She’s too busy hosting that fancy party at the top of her tower. A tasteless, boring way to waste time, if you ask me.” She gestured out the window to a grand mansion in the distance, lit up like a broadway show.

 

Imelda came around the corner promptly, rushing over to Miguel. “Don’t you _ever_ run off on me like that again, do you hear me?” she chastised him, her protective, motherly instinct kicking in. “You had me _worried sick._ ” She began pushing him away. “We mustn’t bother Señora Kahlo or Señor Lara. They have their own jobs to do, and need to be left alone in order to do them.”

 

Miguel moved away from her. “You said my tatara abuela would be here!” he whispered, a little hurt by the lie. “She’s far across town, hosting some big, fancy party.”

 

The corners of Imelda’s mouth turned down. “That _self-absorbed, incompetent piruja!_ ” she yelled in vexation. Ernestina was so narcissistic that she thought she was ‘too good’ to do rehearsals. “Only an _imbécil_ doesn't show up for a rehearsal.”

 

“If you two had such good history together, how come she didn't invite you to her party?” he asked her, putting his hands on his hips.

 

“If you're her great-great grandson, then why didn't she invite _you_?” she countered. “Or better yet: why didn't she cross the bridge to visit your family in the Land of the Living? She's well-remembered, after all.” She looked to the musicians. “Gustavo, sabes algo de esta fiesta?”

 

Gustavo looked away from his friends to the woman. “It's the only thing everybody's been talking about! But if you don't have an invite, then you can't get in.”

 

“Well, what if someone who wanted to get in just so happened to be a relative of hers?” Miguel asked the violinist, stepping forward.

 

Gustavo looked to the boy, slightly intrigued by his words. “What _kind_ of relative?”

 

Miguel grinned sheepishly. “Like a great-great grandson, maybe? Who… might be _me_?”

 

“You think you’re Ernestina de la Cruz’s _great-great grandson?_ ” Gustavo laughed at the boy. “ _HAH!_ That’s hysterical!”

 

Miguel frowned as the other musicians burst out into laughter. “It’s true! She _is_ my great-great grandmother!” he insisted.

 

“Yeah, and I’m Jorge Negrete’s cousin four-times removed!” one of the other musicians yelled out, causing more laughter to erupt.

 

“ _Oye! Shut the fuck up, you good-for-nothing hienas!_ ” Imelda shouted at the musicians while pulling the boy closer to her. “What gives you the right to mock this child? What makes you think he’s lying? After all, Ernestina’s gone through so much _chorizo_ that it’s possible the little _gatito_ could be her descendant.”

 

“Why don’t _you_ shut _your_ mouth, _Llorona?_ ” Gustavo taunted the woman. “Go back to crying over the husband that spurned you, and how you wasted all of your tears over him.”

 

The musicians’ laughter got louder and louder, while Imelda’s fists clenched in anger. “Say _one more word,_ and I’ll send you to hell myself,” she hissed.

 

Miguel looked at Imelda, feeling sorry for his new friend. Yes, _friend_ – she was the only one willing to help him find his great-great grandmother. He realized that she was looking out for him, putting up with all of his antics and–

 

“Hey, that’s not funny!” he exclaimed suddenly, stepping in between Imelda and the musicians, who looked at him in surprise. “How would you like it if someone mocked _you,_ huh? You’d be upset, too! So you pricks can _stuff it!_ Go shove a metal rod up your _traseros_ and leave us be!”

 

Gustavo was seething. “Why _you little_ –”

 

Before he could curse at the child, Imelda pulled off one of her shoes and smacked him across the face with it. “Don’t you _dare_ curse out _mi pequeño gatito!_ ” She held the boot up to his face in a threatening manner, scarily reminding Miguel of his grandmother. “If I were you, I’d follow his advice and _fuck off_ back to where you came from!” She looked up, yelling at the other musicians,“That goes for all of you!  _Come mierda y muere, bastardos!_ ”

 

The musicians quickly scrambled to get away, not wanting to be beaten with a shoe. Imelda put her shoe back on once again as the musicians left. “This is why I _hate_ musicians,” she growled. “They’re a bunch of careless _cabróns_ who think they can joke about other people’s misery.”

 

“Oye, _soy músico,_ ” Miguel protested.

 

Imelda look at the boy. “ _Usted está?_ ” He nodded, and she then said, “Okay, there’s a way to get into her party: at the plaza, there is a music competition. Whoever wins gets a ticket to the party, where they can play for her.” She noticed the grin forming on his face, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You’ll be up against many performers, known for their own unique, talented acts. Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

Miguel held up his skeletal hands, his skin getting more transparent as the bones became more visible. “I need to get my tatara abuela’s blessing,” he spoke with urgency. He put his hands down, looking up at her. “Where can I get a guitar?”

  
Imelda felt herself melting at the look in his brown eyes. _Dios,_ those eyes – they were so much like her husband and daughter’s eyes that it almost terrified her. “You are _loco_ for thinking this, gatito,” she sighed. “But lucky for you, I know a woman…”

 

* * *

 

Pepita made her way into the tunnel, sniffing around until her muzzle knocked over the lid of a paint container. She moved the canister around in her paws, confused at the familiar scent. It smelled like Miguel, but also like her master’s wife… but why was that?

 

“Has encontrado a nuestro chico, Pepita?” Héctor asked as he walked up to his alebrije, putting his hand to the side of her front leg. “Have you found him yet, girl?”

 

Oh, she found something alright.

 

She breathed through her nose onto the ground, her blue breath lightening up a footprint.

 

“A footprint!” Rosita cried out.

 

Julio leaned in and saw that the bootprint had the Rivera trademark on it. “ _Una bota de Rivera,_ with the R and everything!”

 

“Size seven,” Óscar observed.

 

“ _Y medio,_ ” Felipe noted as well.

 

“Pronada,” Víctor added with a smirk.

 

“Miguel,” Héctor finished, smiling.

 

Pepita let out another breath, its glow revealing more footprints.

 

“ _Buena gata!_ ” Héctor praised his alebrije, patting her head gently and rubbing his cheek against hers. He looked ahead and whispered, “Don’t worry, chamaco. You’re gonna be home soon enough.” _And you’ll be safe from her fate. This, do I swear._

 

* * *

 

 

Miguel followed Imelda down a rickety old staircase, which shook with each step the two took. He looked at his now boney hands, both unnerved and concerned. The curse was getting worse by each second.

 

“Por qué diablos quieres ser músico?” Imelda asked him.

 

“Mi tatarabuela era músico!” Miguel answered, slightly defensive.

 

“So she was,” Imelda replied with a scowl, acid dripping from her voice. “She spent her life screeching like a hawk during the day, and sold her backside to whatever man happened to find her beautiful each night. She didn’t care if they were older or younger than her – if he was handsome and interested, she’d have her way with him and let him love her in every way possible, then she’d leave him when she finally became bored with him. The famous lifestyle isn’t something you’re cut out for, gatito – you’re too good for that.”

 

Miguel’s eyes narrowed at her words. “You know nothing,” he muttered. He glanced at De la Cruz’s tower in the distance, then back at the woman. “Entonces, qué tan lejos está esta guitarra de todos modos?”

 

“Almost th– _hold it!_ ” Imelda stopped as she came close to the ledge. It was way too high up. A skeleton could easily reassemble their bones back in place, but a living child… the little gatito could get seriously injured. “I think it’s best that we take those stairs,” she said, her gaze moving to the unstable staircase. She held a hand out to the boy. “Hold my hand until we’re at the bottom, lo tengo?”

 

Miguel’s eyes traveled to the old stairs, and he immediately took Imelda’s hand once he saw how shaky they were. As they continued down the steps, the boy remembered how his mother had always offered to hold his hand whenever they crossed the street to head to the store. And sure, Imelda’s hand was made of bone, but it felt so warm and familiar… a little too familiar. 

 

They continued down the stairs, passing by some rusty old shacks. The people who owned the shacks seemed to perk up at seeing Imelda. “ _Prima Imelda!_ ” they called out.

 

“ _Hola, primos!_ ” Imelda greeted back, just as loudly and cheerily.

 

“These people are all your family?” Miguel questioned. “If so, then _wow._ I can’t believe I thought mine was big, when yours is _huge._ ”

 

“Ehhh… they’re more of a chosen family,” Imelda clarified. “We’re all known as _los olvidados,_ with no photos on a single ofrenda – it’s what we’ve all got in common, what _unites us._ So, we live in this little Shantytown and refer to one another as prima, primo, tía or tío because we’re kind of a like a family in a way. _Una familia olvidada._ ”

 

By now, they reached a bungalow. Three elderly men were gathered around a table with a dimly lit candle, along with a few shot glasses and magazines laid out. The shortest one looked up, his frown soon turning into a smile. “Imelda!”

 

“Tío Chicharrón, oye!” she greeted him. She helped pour some more drinks into the mens’ glasses.

 

“Muchas gracias,” he thanked her.

 

“Hey, do you know if Chelo is around?” she asked as she poured two glasses, knowing how much the woman liked her tequila.

 

“She’s in there,” Chicharrón replied, gesturing to the bungalow. “She’s been glowing a lot lately… I think it’s her time, if you catch my drift. She definitely needs the visitors.”

 

Imelda’s metaphorical heart nearly flipped over at his words, but she forced a smile and nodded as she backed into the tent. “I’ll just drop in and say _hola_ to her then.”

 

She entered the shanty bungalow, holding the curtain open so that her companions could walk in. The tent was narrow, noiseless and the only light was that of a few candles. There were piles of old dealing cards and torn dresses stacked around. Miguel nearly tripped over a box of dresses, but managed to maintain his balance, pushing the boxes back into place.

 

Imelda walked over to a hammock, smiling down at an old lady in a grey dress with some braids in her white hair. “Buenas noches, Chelo!”

 

“Hola, _Mel,_ ” she greeted her back in a gravelly voice.

 

“Como te sientes?” Imelda asked her, setting down the two glasses on a table next to the hammock.

 

“I feel so sick,” Chelo answered weakly. “Every time I move my bones, they shine brighter and brighter…” She glanced at her legs, then back to the younger woman. “But enough about me – what about you?”

 

“Me? Well, I…” the younger woman trailed off, the words getting stuck in her throat. She could tell from the older woman’s weakened state that she was fading soon, and it horrified her since Chelo had been the first friend she made when she came to Shantytown. The older woman had been so kind and hospitable towards her, like how an aunt would treat their niece. Yet, if the younger woman didn’t get on with her task of helping the boy get to De la Cruz, it’d be curtains for her. “Mi pequeño amigo, Miguel, and I are in a dire situation at the moment – and we _have_ to use your guitar.”

 

The older woman sat up, confused by the younger woman’s words. “But you haven’t played in years, Mel.”

 

“I know that – but as I said before, it’s for a very urgent matter,” Imelda replied. “We’ll bring it back once we’re done with it though, I swear.”

 

Chelo grabbed her guitar, holding it out to her friend. “I wouldn’t be able to take it back or even play it again by then,” she said to her, smiling sadly. “You and the niñito can keep it. All I ask of you is to play and sing for me, before I die.”

 

“Tía Chelo, you know I can’t do that–”

 

“ _Please, Mel,_ ” the older woman begged, her body starting to glow. “My favorite song – you know the lyrics by heart. Do a dying woman a favor, will you?”

 

A sad smile formed on Imelda’s face, matching the older woman’s. What kind of a friend would she be if she were to deny Chelo of her wish, when she was just about ready to fade away? If she was going to take her guitar, then the least she could do was earn it. “For you, Tía Chelo, I will play this song,” she made her decision, taking the woman’s guitar into her hands. She sat down at the edge of the hammock, and began to play the song.

 

_“Conoces ya a Juanita?_

_Sus ojos son bicolores.”_

 

Miguel couldn’t help but stare at the woman, amazed by how good she was at playing a guitar. And her voice was so powerful, so divine, so… _gorgeous._ It was like she was a goddess of music.

 

_“Sus dientes chuecos y tiene tres…_

_Con sus… uñas el suelo rayó.”_

 

“Her nails scratch the floor?” Chelo couldn’t help but laugh at the change of lyrics, knowing very well what the real words were. “Oh, Mel, you and I both know that you don’t give a damn when it comes to speaking vulgarly.”

 

“You might be right about that, _but_ …” She moved her shoulder, motioning towards the boy. “I will _not_ say _anything_ sexual around the gatito.” With that, she went and continued on singing the song.

 

 _“Sus trenzas son de alambre,_

_arqueadas sus piernas están._

_Si yo no fuera tan feo,_

_su amor tal vez me podría dar!”_

 

Once Imelda finished singing, Chelo had a contented smile on her face. “Me mueve mis recuerdos,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “ _Thank you, Mel_ …”

 

With one last glow, the old woman faded away into dust.

 

Imelda stood up, taking one of the glasses and lifting it up in respect of her forgotten friend, before downing it all in a single gulp. She wiped her lips once she was done with her drink, placing the glass next to the untouched one.

 

“Q-qué le pasó a ella?” Miguel asked his friend, feeling uneasy and bewildered about what he just witnessed.

 

“She’s been forgotten,” the woman answered, her tone now hushed and grim. “When the knowledge of your existence slips from the minds of everyone in the Land of the Living, you fade away from this realm. Everyone here calls it the ‘Final Death’, but I prefer to say that it’s cruel irony.”

 

“So… some people here die, only to die _again?_ ” Miguel was now horrified. What kind of sick, twisted joke were the gods playing here? And– and where was Chelo now? “Wait… where did she go, then? I-is there another afterlife, like a Land of the Forgotten or something?”

 

Imelda wished she knew the answer to the boy’s question. She wished she could give him a positive answer, but she had to be honest. “I don’t know, gatito. Nobody knows – only the gods do.”

 

Miguel tried to remain optimistic, though his mask was slipping. “But I’ve met her,” he went on, looking back at where Chelo’s body once laid. “If I remember her when I go back, then surely she’ll–”

 

“The world here doesn’t work like that, gatito,” Imelda spoke abruptly. “Memories have to be passed down by people who knew us back in the Land of the Living. No one there remembers Chelo… and so her story ends here, with us.”

 

Miguel’s eyes traveled to Imelda’s bones, and it was then that he saw just how faded in color they were – how withered they were, in comparison to all the other skeletons with healthy, fresh-looking bones.

 

It just wasn’t _right._

 

“Try not to think about it too much,” Imelda said, entwining an arm with him. “Time goes on, and we all get forgotten in the end.” She gave him the guitar, trying to change the subject: “Venga, _de la Cruzcito,_ tienes un concurso para ganar.”

 

Miguel kept silent as he followed her, though he knew one thing was certain: the sight of Chelo fading away was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, that turned out pretty long.
> 
> anyways, notes:
> 
>   1. imelda being a tour guide is a nod to a deleted scene, revealing héctor used to be a tour guide for a bus until – well, y’know. the idea was scrapped in the final film, but i used it here because i liked it. pretty neat, ain’t it?
>   2. “puta madre” literally means _motherfucker_ in spanish.
>   3. agustín lara was a treat to write, honestly – though i’m still kinda nervous about whether i got him right or not, but i think it’s an okay job. him having a quetzal as an alebrije was just a creative touch, because of this “songbird” pun i had in mind. as for frida’s alebrije, i named it citlalee because it means “star” in aztec – a fitting indigenous name for the pet of a famous indigenous/mestiza artist, no? ;)
>   4. miguel and imelda standing up for each other was a change that i thought of, mainly due always getting a little bothered by the fact that miguel laughs in the “chorizo” scene… like, what. also im just gonna say now: _screw gustavo._ he is the worst.
>   5. _piruja_ means hooker – dunno if it has the heaviest usage in mexico or not, but it’s generally considered very vulgar in latin america and should always be said aloud with some caution. _come mierda y muere_ literally translates to the phrase “eat shit and die.” and i don’t think _bastardo_ needs any translations now, since it should be pretty obvious what its meaning is in english. _mel_ is one of the diminutives of imelda, from what i’ve researched (because even a boricuan like me can get confused about name diminutives at times). sounded cute, so i chose it.
>   6. originally, i was going to change the lyrics to “everyone knows juan” but after going through the pain of changing pronouns in my version of “la bikina” for this au (which the song will be shown later on, though i won’t spoil much), i decided to keep the lyrics. besides, it still works in context – especially since there’s many ways the people in shantytown could’ve been forgotten, if you catch my drift. ;)
>   7. on a side note, i’m unsure how many chapters this story will be, since i just fit in as much as i can for a chapter. seriously, we’re only four chapters in and we’ve already covered frida and “juanita” – but i blame the fact that i’m starting a new math program tomorrow which ends on thursday, and after that i start up work again. i want to be able to write and have as much fun as i can with this story, before i start pushing it to the side to work (unless my schedule isn’t so busy, i hope).
> 

> 
> but anyhow, with this chapter completed, i shall now start working on the next one – aka the bonding ‘montage’ and “un poco loco”!


	5. a growing bond & "un poco loco"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here’s the bonding 'montage' (or for a lack of better term: moments) and “un poco loco”! hope you guys enjoy it!

As Imelda and Miguel walked out of Shantytown, the boy looked at Imelda’s photo while his guitar was slung around his shoulders. How was it that a woman who said she _hated_ musicians could make such a good one? It was almost the same as the case with his Prima Rosa – she once told him of how much she loved music, yet never bothered to touch an actual violin and ended up working in the shoe shop instead. What was it with the people he was close with in acting so contradictory?

 

He looked to Imelda. “You hate musicians, yet you are one,” he said slowly, her angelic voice still echoing through his mind.

 

Imelda looked at him with a small smile on her face. “How else would Ernestina and I have gotten to know each other?” she asked him, amused by how surprised he was. “We met in an orphanage when she was nine, while I was six years-old. There, we became the closest pair of amigas there ever was and eventually left that orphanage to play together as a _dueto._ It was just the two of us, against the world.” She now had a smug smirk on her face. “I taught her everything she knows.”

 

Miguel gaped at the woman. “ _No manches!_ You taught Ernestina de la Cruz – the most magnificent musician of all time – how to play a guitar?” In all of her interviews, Ernestina de la Cruz had always said that she had been a self-taught guitarist. It made sense that she and Imelda used to play together as a duet, but the idea that she had to be taught by someone _three years younger_ _than her_ was almost impossible for Miguel to believe… but Imelda didn’t seem like she was lying. She seemed like she was genuinely telling the truth here.

 

“You’re cute, gatito,” Imelda snorted lightly. “Most magnificent looks of all time, _yes_ – but her music? It’s not really her best quality.”

 

The woman tried her best to mask her pain. She knew very well that the only reason her memory wasn’t passed down was because Ernestina never credited her for writing the songs – instead, the mariachi claimed them as her own. Imelda couldn’t help but wonder why – _why_ would her best friend do this to her?

 

She definitely was  _not_ looking forward to seeing her in again, for the first time in seventy-five years.

 

“Well… we all have our own opinions,” Miguel said, shrugging off the woman’s words about De la Cruz. He couldn’t bring himself to dismiss her thoughts, since her beef with the woman _was_ understandable – her business was shut down because of her, whether the mariachi had intended for that to happen or not. That, and… Imelda was kind of starting to sound like Rosa now, oddly enough.

 

(Except Rosa’s love for music hadn’t been that much of a shocking surprise to him, since he had known ever since childhood – when he was six, and she was eight.

 

In fact, it had been the day of her eighth birthday that he had discovered that he was not the only Rivera child who loved music. While trying to find a place in his aunt and uncle’s room to hide his present until the birthday party, he found his cousin sitting on the bed, watching television.

 

But the program that had been on wasn’t the type of program Tía Carmen would usually turn on – no, _no_ ; it had been a channel that Abuelita had strictly forbidden the family from watching. It was a channel that broadcasted broadway shows and live performances by musicians – and the program that day had been one of a musician from Argentina, playing a violin to their heart’s content.

 

Miguel saw Rosa swaying back and forth, holding her hands in a position as if she were also playing a violin – and it was then that he revealed himself, asking in a small voice: “You too?”

 

His tiny little music-loving heart soared when she turned to him and said: “Yes.”

 

And from day onward, they told each other all about their love of music – they even spoke of forming a band together, but alas, some things were just not meant to be.

 

He learned that after she turned twelve.)

 

But unlike Rosa, Imelda seemed more genuine, more willing to listen and stick to his side – more safer than any other family member of his, except Mamá Coco obviously. Still, Miguel knew that Imelda was the closest thing he had to an ally in this realm – at least, that was until he got to De la Cruz.

 

His mind soon wandered off that subject though, as he noticed some skeletons drinking some tequila. It made him wonder where the drinks went, since skeletons obviously didn’t have any organs on them minus eyeballs. “Um… so I’ve got a question: where does the food go?” he asked as he turned to her. “I mean, none of you have any stomachs or any inner body systems at all, so…” In order to illustrate a point, he tried to shove a hand through Imelda’s nonexistent stomach – only for the woman to grab his arm before he could even touch her.

 

“ _Ah, ah, ah!_ Don’t even try it, gatito!” she said warningly. “You should know better than to try and put your hands on a lady – especially near her lower areas. You’re what, twelve? Act your age.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Miguel tried to think of a comeback, then riposted: “You’re like twenty-two and you act as if you’re forty-something!”

 

Imelda didn’t seem phased by the riposte, though. Instead, she replied with: “ _Good._ At least one of us is acting mature.”

 

Miguel’s eyes rolled as he realized that there was no use in trying to make a comeback, when the woman would not be easily defeated.

 

All of a sudden, a bunch of tipsy skeletons passed by, singing an all-too familiar tune.

 

_“Conoces ya a Juanita?_

_Sus ojos son bicolores,_

_sus dientes chuecos y tiene tres…”_

Imelda immediately covered Miguel’s ears as she recognized that by the way the drunken skeletons were singing, that this was the explicit version of the song. She pushed the twelve year-old in front of her and began to walk away quickly, before the child could so much as even hear a _word_ of the drunkards’ intoxicated singing.

 

“ _Heeeeey,_ I wanted to hear the actual lyrics!” the child complained, trying to look back.

 

“NO, YOU DO NOT,” Imelda quickly said, blocking his view. “YOU MOST CERTAINLY _DO NOT_ WANT TO KNOW THE REAL LYRICS.”

 

* * *

 

After leaving Shantytown and snagging some mangos, they boarded a trolley to the Plaza de la Cruz – or rather, the back of it as neither of them had any _dinero_ on them to pay for seats. Imelda was tuning the guitar, while Miguel took a bite out of his mango.

 

“Hey, Imelda, what was it like playing with De la Cruz?” he asked as he leaned on the railing.

 

Imelda stopped tuning the guitar, setting it aside as she took out a mango and stood next to the boy. “At the beginning, it wasn’t anything fancy – just some little amateurish gigs, since we were just two young girls.” She rested her arms on the railing and added: “But you learn a lot while playing on the road, and you grow as time goes on.”

 

“Was it ever weird that De la Cruz became super out of this world, once in a lifetime famous and no one’s even heard of you?” Miguel asked, munching on another slice of mango.

 

Imelda stopped before she could pop a mango slice into her mouth, slightly uncomfortable with the boy’s question as she wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Uh…”

 

Miguel went on, with as much sensitivity as most boys who hadn’t hit puberty yet: “I mean, when you watched her movies and saw her on the big screen were you like, _‘Damn, she’s got it all figured out! And here I am, just sitting in the movie theater, doing nothing with my life.’_ ”

 

Imelda popped the mango slice into her mouth, chewing on it for a few seconds before simply replying with: “Never saw her films.”

 

“What?!” He turned to her, flabbergasted at her reply. “ _None of them_?”

 

Imelda looked at him, her mouth pursing into a slightly smug smile as she shrugged. “Nope.”

 

“You haven’t lived, güey.”

 

Imelda’s eye twitched. “I died in 1921 – my corpse was literally _rotted_ by the time they were released!” she reminded him.

 

“That’s no excuse,” Miguel laughed a little. He looked ahead, squinting as he saw two lights and something large not too far from them. “Imelda… do you know what that is?”

 

Imelda looked ahead, tilting her head and trying to see what it was. “Another trolley?”

 

Dante, on the other hand, seemed to disagree as he let out a low growl.

 

The 'trolley' turned out to be a large winged jaguar, rising to the air as it let out a loud roar. Imelda gasped, seeming to recognize the feline's cry while Dante barked at it.

 

“I don’t think that’s a trolley,” Miguel said nervously.

 

Then, the creature appeared right next to them, letting out another roar. Miguel and Imelda let out a scream in unison as they saw the creature, before it flew high above the trolley’s little cart.

 

It circled the cart, before diving in and trying to grab a hold of Miguel, who ran over to Imelda’s side – only to slip, nearly falling off the railing into the city’s depths below. Luckily, Imelda grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the cart, saving him from certain death.

 

They looked up to see where the creature had gone, only for it to grab Miguel’s hoodie with its talons, with the intent to snatch him away.

 

“Imelda, _ayuda_!” the twelve year-old cried out.

 

“Don’t worry, gatito!” Imelda grabbed his foot, trying her best to pull him out of the feline’s clutches. “I got you!” Their eyes locked for a moment, and in those young, youthful eyes she saw _terror_ and _helplessness_ and a _scared child_ before the feline let out a loud cry in her face–

 

And then, she lifted her right leg up and kicked it right in the muzzle, causing her shoe to fall off while the alebrije dropped Miguel as it let out a whimper. She quickly caught the boy as he fell into her arms, holding him close. “Está bien, gatito! I got–”

 

The large alebrije slamming its body against the cart, making it rock violently and throw Miguel and Dante onto the railing – but Imelda was the most unfortunate one, as she fell over the side.

 

“ _No te preocupes! Te tengo_!” Miguel yelled, quickly grabbing the woman’s arms before her back could hit the ground. Just as he was about to pull his friend up, the alebrije climbed over the top of the trolley.

 

But then, Dante came to the rescue as he jumped up onto the top of the trolley, barking and growling at the alebrije. Despite it being ten times his size, he kept his ground.

 

The alebrije flew off the trolley and prepared to strike again, while Imelda and Miguel clung to each other–

 

Only for the alebrije to let out a confused cry as the trolley went through a tunnel.

 

Imelda let out a sigh of relief, before checking her friend’s face for any injuries. “Estás bien, gatito? No estás herido, verdad?”

 

“I’m fine,” Miguel answered, nodding. “But _what the heck was that_?”

 

“An alebrije, but on some type of drug – like cocaine.”

 

They both looked up to see Dante barking and wagging his tail in triumph.

 

“Haha!” Miguel laughed and held out his arms, allowing the dog to jump into them. “But it was no match for the mighty Dante!” He set the dog down, scratching behind his ears. “You were _amazing,_ boy!”

 

“You, too, gatito,” Imelda told the boy. There was a pause as she realized that she hadn’t thanked him for standing up for her back there, so: “I didn’t get to say this before, but um… thank you, for standing up for me back at the rehearsal – _and_ for saving my life. It means a lot.”

 

Miguel nudged her shoulder. “Don’t mention it!” he said teasingly. Then, he quickly added: “And, uh, thanks for saving my life and standing up for me. It means as much to me as it does to you.”

 

The trolley stopped as the Plaza de la Cruz came into view. As the three got off, Miguel could see bright lights and colors, women in beautiful dresses, violinists, pyrotechnic bullfighting, dancing, a t-shirt vendor selling De la Cruz t-shirts – and lastly, a giant statue of Ernestina de la Cruz right in the center of it all.

 

“Bienvenido a la Plaza de la Cruz!” Imelda gave the guitar to Miguel, giving him a pat on the back. “Come, gatito – it's showtime.” They went over to the stage, where the emcee was greeting the audience.

 

“Bienvenidos a todos! _Quién está listo para algo de música_?” The audience whooped, to which the emcee continued: “It's a battle of the bands, amigos! The winner gets to play for the maestra herself, _Ernestina de la Cruz,_ at her fiesta tonight!”

 

Imelda bumped shoulders with Miguel. “That's your ticket, gatito.”

 

* * *

 

Several acts had performed on stage – a tuba and violin act, a saxophone player, a hardcore metal band, a teen playing a marimba on the back of his giant iguana alebrije, a DJ with a laptop and keyboard setup, a dog alebrije orchestra and nuns playing accordions.

 

Backstage, Imelda and Miguel waited for the boy's turn, amongst many other contestants who were preparing to go up.

 

“So, what is the winning song that will you be playing?” Imelda asked the twelve year-old, knowing very well that he was going to win since most of the other competitors seemed pretty mediocre.

 

“ _'Recuérdame',_ duh,” Miguel responded, beginning to play a few notes.

 

“No – no, you are not!” Imelda quickly put her hand over the strings before he could play another note. A long time ago, that song once had a deep meaning to it – but it was soon tainted as Ernestina's version surfaced, becoming one of the greatest hits in the entire country. The way it was sung nowadays would have one easily think that it was merely a mariachi's way of asking people to think of her, but that was all _so very wrong_ in reality. “You are _not_ going to sing that song.”

 

“Come on, it’s the most well-known song she’s put out!” Miguel objected to her refusal.

 

“So well-known to the point where it’s literally what everyone else is playing,” Imelda pointed out, gesturing to the other acts performing their own versions of the song.

 

_“Recuérdame, aunque tenga que emigrar,_

_Recuérdame…”_

_“RECUÉRDAME! NO LLORES, POR FAVOR!”_

“What did I tell you?” Imelda asked as she looked back to Miguel, sounding like an old wisenheimer.

 

“Okay then, how about, um…” Miguel felt discouraged, anxiety building up inside of him as he tried his best to think of an alternative. _Recuérdame_ was a song he'd sing to himself every day, yet Imelda had a point. So, he suggested a different song: “ _'Un Poco Loco?'_ ”

 

“A very wise and excellent choice,” Imelda accepted, beaming at him. _Un Poco Loco_ had remained the same, and thus it wasn’t as painful for her to listen to as _Recuérdame_ was.

 

“Marco de la Cruzcito? You’re on standby,” the stagehand informed him. “Los Chachalacos, you’re next!”

 

Miguel watched as the group of mariachis stepped up onto the stage, giving an amazing performance. His anxiety worsened as he saw how wild they made the audience go. He began to chew on his fingernails as many thoughts ran through his head. How could he going to compete with that, when he had spent most of his life playing for himself? How was he going to win this contest, when he hadn’t even practiced?

 

Imelda noticed how anxious her friend looked, reminding her of how nervous her husband had been the day before he proposed to her. “Is something the matter, gatito? You look a little nervous.”  

 

Miguel rubbed his arm nervously. “Would you be mad at me if I told you that this is my first performance?”

 

Shock crossed Imelda’s face, her mouth dropping open slightly. “ _Qué?!_ But the way you were talking before – your words implied that you were a músico!”

 

“And I am a músico!” Miguel asserted. “For _years,_ I’ve spent my time in an attic playing a guitar – a guitar that _I made!_ I’ve just never had an audience around to listen to me play, except for Dante.”

 

“ _Damn it, gatito!_ I’ve said that this idea was loco for a _reason_!” Imelda yelled, groaning as she gripped her hair. “If you don’t win this competition, then you can’t get to De la Cruz – and if you can’t get to De la Cruz, then you can’t get her blessing which will lead you to your _death!_ And you’re telling me that you’ve only played for _yourself_?!” She reached for the guitar. “You know what? It’s fine – I’ll just go up there and compete in your place. You’re clearly not ready and your life depends on it, so–”

 

“ _No_!” Miguel pulled the guitar close to him, clutching it tightly. “I appreciate your concern and offer, but this is something I need to do on my own.”

 

Imelda pulled back, a little startled by the twelve year-old's outburst. “Por qué? I can do this for you – after all, it’s what amigos do for one another.”

 

“I know, _I know_ – but what kind of musician would I be if I made you compete in my place?” Miguel asked, trying to make a point. “I _need_ this, to prove that I’m worthy of De la Cruz’s blessing… that I’ve got what it takes to be a musician, like her.”

 

“My god…” Imelda's expression softened as she put a hand over her ghostly heart, touched by the boy’s wisdom. “That might just be the sweetest, most thoughtful thing you’ve ever said.” She sat him down on a crate. “Okay. You want to perform out there? You have to _go all out!_ First, you must calm down and get rid of all that anxiety.”

 

Miguel shimmied his arms and legs, trying to rid his limbs of the cold, numb shakiness.

 

“Now, do you know how to do a grito?”

 

“A… grito?”

 

“Yell! Let out all of your excitement!” Imelda let out a loud, joyful grito to demonstrate, then began to breathe in and out afterwards. “That, mi pequeño amigo, is a grito… now, try it.”

 

Miguel let out an uncertain grito: _“Ah – ah – ayyyyy yaaaaayyyyay…”_

Imelda winced. “Well, we’re fucked…”

 

Then, the stagehand called out: “Marco de la Cruzcito, you’re on now!”

 

Miguel looked to the stage, freezing up in fear. He gulped as he realized that this was it. He was about to head onstage, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned as the woman’s arms soon wrapped around him.

 

“Don’t worry, Miguel,” Imelda whispered as she stroked his back gently. “I believe in you. You’ve made it this far – you can’t give up now.”

 

“Come on, let’s go!”

 

“Do your best, gatito,” Imelda continued to encourage him. “Believe in yourself, and follow your dreams – go out there and play that guitar. If you sing with all the passion you’ve got, then surely they’ll _have_ to listen. And never forget: I’m behind you with every step of the way.”

 

Miguel smiled into the fabric of his friend’s dress, returning the hug. “ _Gracias._ I’ll try my hardest.”

 

“I know you will.” Imelda smiled at him, pulling away from the hug. She waved at the boy as he went onto the stage, now filled with some confidence.

 

“Damas y caballeros: _De la Cruzcito_!”

 

Miguel stepped up to the microphone, clutching the guitar in his hands. His body shook a little as he saw that the audience was _huge_.

 

He glanced over to the stage wing, where Imelda and Dante were waiting. The woman had a look on reassurance on her face – and he didn’t know how, but somehow, her reassuring smile made him feel more confident.

 

 _Give her a reason to believe in you,_ he said to himself as he took a deep breath in. He shook off his nerves, then belted out: _“HAAAAAAAI-YAAAAAAAAAAAI-YAAAAAAAAI!”_

 

He smiled as the audience became enthusiastic, whooping and applauding at this full-throated cry. Never did he imagine that he'd be here, playing for an audience without his family barging in and trying to shut in down – yet, here he was now.

 

It felt like a dream come true as he raised his hand, then began to strum the guitar's strings and sing.

 

_“Que el cielo no es azul,_

_Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor!_

_Que es rojo dices tú,_

_Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor!_

_Ves todo al revés,_

_Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor!_

_Creo que piensas con los pies,_

_Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor!”_

Just as the crowd became more excited, so did Miguel. He began to dance around while singing more loudly, putting as much energy into the song as he possibly could.

 

_“Tú me traes un poco loco,_

_Un poquiti-ti-to loco!_

_Estoy adivinando,_

_Qué quieres y pa cuando!_

_Y así estoy celebrando,_

_Que me he vuelto un poco loco!”_

Imelda was amazed at how well Miguel was doing, admiring the boy's skills and how he was making himself known. He definitely had the talent and soul of a musician, reminding her of how she'd been when she was his age. Now, she could only hope that he wouldn't make her mistakes, or follow Ernestina's path…

 

All of a sudden, she felt something tugging at her dress' skirt. She looked down, and saw that Dante had his teeth latched onto the edge of her dress. “Let go, maldito perro!” She tried to yank her dress away from him, only for the dog to drag her onstage.

 

The audience didn't seem to mind much, though – in fact, her appearance only made them cheer even more.

 

Well, there was no harm in having a little fun now, was there? And so, Imelda began to dance and twirl around the boy, picking up her skirts to tap both her bare and shod foot onto the stage's floor, creating two distinct rhythms.

 

“Hey, you're pretty good for a woman who's been dead for nearly a century!” Miguel teased, bumping the woman's shoulder.

 

Imelda grinned at him. “And you're not too bad either, gatito!”

 

——

 

Héctor followed his alebrije as she led him into the Plaza de la Cruz. An intense hatred burned within him as he and his family passed by her statue, knowing very well that if she had just left him and his wife be, then everything would've been fine. His wife never would've left, his daughter would've had a mother, he wouldn't have had to support his family all by himself and _none of this_ would be happening. Alas, Ernestina was like a hurricane – she came, and destroyed the lives of those who dared to cross paths with her.

 

But that harridan wasn't his main focus at the moment – it was Miguel whom he was concentrating on finding, not that disgusting _harlot_.

 

Pepita revealed more footprints, leading to the edge of the audience.

 

“He must be close then,” Héctor said to his family. “Find hi–”

 

And then, he heard a faint, gorgeous voice that he hadn't heard in many years – a voice that he fell in love with one hundred years ago, yet was now a stab to the heart as it reminded him of what he lost.

 

Víctor noticed how his grandfather had stiffened as he stared off blankly, as if he had just seen something very shocking. “Abuelo, are you okay?”

 

Héctor didn't respond as he became lost within a memory of a young woman dancing at a plaza, playing a guitar and singing vigorously. He remembered the way she would look into the audience, how their eyes would meet and how her smile only got bigger – and oh, how she had made his heart flutter.

 

“ _Abuelo_!”

 

Héctor snapped out of his thoughts as his eldest grandson shook him roughly. He pushed the younger man off him and yelled, “ _Víctor Héctor Rivera Arau!_ You know better than to shake your abuelo like that! You're forty-three, for heaven's sake!”

 

Víctor shrunk back, wincing at the use of his middle name – which his mother had given him, in respect to her father. It was going to be his name at one point, but his father had spoken up in time before there would be another _Héctor_ running around the house. “ _Lo siento, Abuelo,_ ” he apologized. “It's just that you got so stiff, and you weren't moving or responding.”

 

“Oh.” Héctor mentally slapped himself for getting so lost within his memory and for yelling at the younger man. “No, no.” He shook his head, placing a hand on his grandson's shoulder. “ _I'm sorry,_ mijo. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

 

“It's fine.” Víctor waved a hand in dismissal, then put it down as he asked: “I'm just curious… what were you thinking about?”

 

“Nothing,” Héctor replied, perhaps a little too quickly, but he really wanted to avoid talking about his wife.

 

But Víctor knew his grandfather, from many years of being doted on by him in life. He could easily tell when the man was lying and trying to hide his troubles, whether it was by how he responded to questions or how he hid his pain behind a fake smile. “ _Are you sure_?”

 

The patriarch almost cracked at the younger man's persistence on the matter. Being close with Teto was both a blessing and a curse at times – on one hand, he loved doting on his grandson, but on the other hand, the boy knew him _too well._

Nevertheless, he waved off his concerns. Teto didn't need to worry about him – he would be fine on his own, not knowing anything. “Yes, I'm _fine._ Now, let's focus on more important matters: like finding Miguel.”

 

Víctor gave him a skeptical look, before joining his father, aunt and uncles as they all spread out to search for Miguel.

 

Meanwhile, Héctor left the plaza, with his alebrije trailing behind him.

 

He already had to deal with hearing Ernestina's over-the-top singing – if he so much as heard _another lyric_ uttered by his wife, he would surely break.

 

——

 

Back onstage, the audience was eating up every second of Miguel and Imelda's performance, going wild as the two poured their hearts and souls into the music. Neither of the two seemed to even be paying attention to the audience at this point, focusing on each other instead as the solo act soon turned into a duet as Imelda joined in on the singing.

 

_“Chiflado tú me vuelves,_

_Y eso está un poco loco!_

_Tu mente que despega–”_

_“Tú siempre con ideas!”_

_“Con mi cabeza juegas… todo es un poco loco!”_ the two sung together, spinning around the microphone.

 

“Hagamos ruido!” Imelda shouted, then let out a grito.

 

Miguel let out his own grito, getting up in his friend’s face as they traded off loud cries together. He didn’t care if it made his throat strain a little, or if his face got a little hot – he felt so _alive_ and so _delighted_ to be able to let out what he'd been keeping in his entire life.

 

The pair of friends ran around each other, before Imelda lifted Miguel up into the air as they finished together: _“Un poquiti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-tito loco!”_

The audience gave out the loudest applause, cheering and throwing flowers at the pair. They both breathed in and out as they bowed for the audience.

 

Imelda then pulled Miguel into a hug. “Now _that's_ what I call an outstanding performance! You were _perfect_!” she praised him. “I'm very proud to be your friend.”

 

Miguel's heart was overflowing with happiness at this point. Never in his life had anyone told him how proud he'd made them – he was so used to hearing his family praising Rosa for being the 'smart girl' and Abel for being the 'good grandson' that he never expected any sort of praise coming his way, so hearing those words from Imelda was a _very_ pleasant surprise.

 

In that very moment, everything was perfect.

 

But soon, the moment ended as Miguel looked into the crowd and saw some familiar faces.

 

His twin tíos, Óscar and Felipe, were talking to two men while his Tío Víctor and Tía Rosita were talking to two women. When he looked to the stage right, he saw Papá Julio talking to the woman dressed in pink.

 

Despite the audience's demands for an encore, Miguel knew that he couldn't let his family find him nor could he let Imelda know the truth, so he quickly dragged her backstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:
> 
>   1. the whole 'flashback' with miguel finding out how rosa loved music was a bit of a parallel to the scene where imelda reveals her love for it in canon, though it's more brief – still, i think it gets the point across how miguel's recognizing more traits of his family members in imelda, especially with his cousin. that, and it also gives a good hint of what his relationship with rosa was like before the events of this fic.
>   2. him trying to put his hand through imelda's dress to try and find out where food comes from just seemed so funny to me when i drafted it, along with imelda trying to save his innocence from being completely tainted by the explicit lyrics to “juanita.”
>   3. the train scene was inspired by a deleted scene, where pepita attacks miguel (then marco) and héctor, only for the two to save one another while dante rises up as the true hero! that, and it helped strengthen the already growing bond between imelda and miguel. rip imelda's right shoe tho. it shall be missed.
>   4. speaking of marco: miguel’s stagename being “marco de la cruzcito” is a nod to the original script of coco, along with the fandom’s little obsession over this beta miguel. all the interpretations, fics and art are so cute – though, at times it does get a little confusing when you’ve got your own au for the kid… <_< >_>
>   5. surprise! víctor's middle name is his abuelo's name, because he is an abuelo's boy (and coco is a good daughter)! but yeah, i just _had_ to sneak in a small moment for him and héctor since i just couldn't resist (though it turned out to be less bonding and more like "hmm, suspect" thing). _arau_ is the surname of julio's VA: alfonso arau.
>   6. speaking of teto: i was also just thinking: you know who would be a good voice actor for víctor? i'm thinking either diego luna or eugenio derbez.
> 

> 
> and with this chapter done comes the next one, aka the argument scene. *cue internal screaming* :'>


	6. arguments and bitter tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, when i first planned out this part, i thought it was going to be less harsh than the argument and separation scene in the film… boy, was i wrong! and for that, i apologize – but the story must go on!

“ _Oye,_ where do you think you’re going?” Imelda asked as she was pulled backstage.

 

“W-we need to leave _now_!” Miguel stuttered, trying to get away from the stage and out of the plaza as quick as possible. The sooner he got out of the plaza, the better.

 

“But they’re about to announce the winners!” Imelda pulled her arm away, gesturing a hand at the stage. “If we win, then we have to be there to collect the ticket – that way, you can get to De la Cruz’s party!”

 

And then came the announcement from the emcee, who spoke out into the microphone: “Damas y caballeros, I have an announcement to make – please look out for a living boy, who answers to the name of Miguel. Earlier this night, he ran away from his family. They only wish to send him back to the Land of the Living.”

 

Imelda’s body froze as she looked at the stage, filled with complete and utter betrayal as she heard the announcement.

 

“And to the living boy: if you are here, then remain where you are. Keep calm, and do not flee the area. You’ll be safe. Your great-great grandfather and your family are coming to get you, so stay where you are. They’ll be sending you home soon.”

 

A hollow feeling formed in Miguel’s stomach as Imelda turned to him, a cold chill running down his spine as he saw how angry she was.

 

“Gatito, did you know that you had other family members here?” she asked in a low voice, hurt and vexation in her tone.

 

Miguel winced at her tone. “Well, yes, but–”

 

Oh, Imelda was _mad_ – so mad that she didn’t even let him finish. “So you told me that your tatarabuela was the only family you had here, but all this time you had other family here and you _knew that_?” Her eyebrows furrowed in hurt and distrust as she remonstrated: “Not only did you put your life in danger, but you made your family worry to a near second death! They could’ve sent you home, and I could’ve had my photo put up _hours_ ago – but instead, you dragged us around all over the place like a couple of ragdolls!”  

 

“ _Pero_ mi familia odia la música!” Miguel tried to explain, in an attempt to make her see his side of the story. “I need the blessing of a _musician,_ and the only family member who fits that bill is my _tatarabuela_!”

 

“You lied to me, and deliberately endangered yourself!” she reprimanded him. “What if this plan failed, hmm? What if you died, and I was forgotten?”

 

“Don’t you go accusing me of lying when _you_ went along with it and fibbed a little yourself!” Miguel countered. “And the plan wouldn’t have failed!”

 

Imelda wasn’t having it though. “Have you even taken a _goddamn_ _look_ at me?” She held up one of her arms, gesturing to its worn out bones. “My bones are withering away. _Estoy siendo olvidado, Miguel._ Who knows if I’ll even last long enough to see the break of daylight?” The look on her face grew stronger. “I’ve only got _one chance_ at crossing that bridge, just as you’ve got only _so much time left_ before the sun rises. You should’ve told me about your family sooner, and gotten home a long time ago.”  

 

“I just wanted to meet my tatarabuela!” Miguel protested, frustrated nearly to tears. “I just wanted to see her–”

 

“Was she looking for you at all?” Imelda hurled back with a rhetorical question. “Your _tatarabuelo_ was!”

 

Miguel froze at the question. “She – she probably didn’t know–”

 

“That you’re here?” Imelda went on. “She didn’t cross the bridge, and find that you were missing? She didn’t search for your tatarabuelo and find out that her tataranieto was missing?”

 

The thread was untangling itself. Miguel was getting desperate and even more frustrated, his eyes filling up with more tears. “She – she could’ve _tried_ to cross–”

 

“She didn’t cross last year, and she certainly _never_ tried to cross this year either,” Imelda cut him off in a stern, firm manner. The way she spoke reminded him too much of his parents – it was too dismissive, too serious. “Forget this plan – it was a horrible idea right from the start. You’re going back to your family.” She grabbed his arm, ready to take him back.

 

“No, let go of me!” he protested, tugging his arm back. “If I go back to them now, they’ll force me to give up music and I might never get to see her!”

 

“Is it such a great loss if you never see your tatarabuela? She _clearly_ didn’t care about her husband or child when she chose fame over them, so what makes you think she’ll care about _you_?”

 

He recoiled, his eyes widening as he gaped up at her as though he’d been slapped across the face. He thought he could trust her, that she’d be on his side – but she was just like Rosa, like the rest of his family; only looking out for herself, forwarding her own interests.

 

It was upon seeing the look on his face that she realized she went too far, feeling full of shame at what she said. “Gatito, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say–”

 

He tugged his arm out of her hold, backing away. “I thought you were _safe,_ ” he said softly, struggling to fight back the tears in his eyes.

 

“Gatito–”

 

“YOU KNOW _NOTHING_!” he shouted, pulling out the photo he’d been holding to take back. In a heartbroken rage, he tossed it away. “TAKE YOUR DUMB PHOTO AND _GO AWAY_!”

 

Imelda hurried to get her photo back, knowing very well that without it, her chances at seeing _her_ again were reduced to zero. When she got it back, she looked around, realizing that her little friend was nowhere to be found. “ _Gatito_?” _Oh, why did you have to go and say that?_ she scolded herself. “Gatito, where did you go?! Lo siento mucho, _solo por favor vuelve_!”

 

But he was already gone.

 

* * *

 

Miguel ran away down the stone steps, his eyes focusing on the tower in the distance. He kept thinking about what he just heard about his great-great grandmother – she never tried crossing the bridge, not even once. But why? She could’ve tried, and… and she could’ve made it! She was one of the most loved musicians in all of Mexican history – there were many ofrendas out there with her photo on it, including his. The worst part of it all was that… maybe, Imelda had a point.

 

 _No,_ he told himself. _She’s wrong. I’ll meet mi tatarabuela and prove her wrong._ So, he kept running as quickly as he could.

 

He tried to ignore the barking xolo behind him. “Not now, Dante!” When the dog tried to grab him by his jeans, he pulled his leg away. “Stop that! That _víbora_ can’t help me!” Finally, he snapped when the dog grabbed his hoodie sleeve: “I said _STOP IT_!” He pulled his hoodie away, thundering down at the mutt: “You’re not a spirit guide, you’re just a _perro tonto!_ Ahora, _vete de aquí_!”

 

Dante whimpered and backed away, his tail in-between his legs.

 

To the boy’s horror, he heard people gasping and murmuring around him. He quickly pulled his sleeve back on and put his hoodie up, but it was too late – people had already seen the skin around his bones.

 

“It’s him! It’s that living boy!”

 

“I’ve heard about that child.”

 

“Look, he’s alive!”

 

“ _Dios,_ the boy’s alive!”

 

Miguel rushed away from the crowd, dashing towards the tower. He was going to get there, and he was going to see Ernestina de la Cruz _no matter what._

If only Pepita hadn’t landed in front on him, with Papá Héctor right on top of the alebrije. “This stupid musical fantasy ends right here, _right now_!” the patriarch yelled. “I’m sending you back home to your living family!”

 

“ _It’s not stupid! Stay away from me_!” Miguel yelled back, running to a door in the corner and opening it. He ran up the narrow staircase, filled with determination to get to De la Cruz’s tower.

 

Héctor hopped off Pepita’s back and ran after his grandson. “Chamaco, get back here _now_!” God, why did this child have to inherit his wife’s stubbornness? Why did he have to test him like this? “ _Miguel_!”

 

Miguel stopped as he came to a locked gate, grabbing the bars and trying to shake them. He then went through the small hole, trying to yank his guitar along with him.

 

“Can’t you see that I’m only trying to help you?” Héctor asked as he ran up to the boy. “You’ll thank me later–”

 

Miguel pulled his guitar through the gate and exclaimed, “You don’t want to help me! You only care about yourself!”

 

Héctor stopped at the gate’s bars, his eyes going wide. “Why do you think that?”

 

“Music is the only thing that keeps me going,” the twelve year-old explained in a teary-eyed frustration. “It’s my _life,_ and you – you’re willing to take it away just because you hate the very idea of it!” But just as he turned his back, he heard his tatarabuelo begin to hum.

 

_“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona…_

_No dejaré de quererte…”_

The seventy year-old’s voice was soft, though a little gravelly due to old age. Miguel turned to him and whispered, “You hate music, though.”

 

Héctor had a bitter smile on his face. “Oh, I _love_ music,” he responded, putting a hand on his chest. “I know the feeling of excitement that rushes through the body, every time the sound of a guitar’s string being plucked is heard. My wife played the guitar, and together we’d sing duets… it was as if we were the only two people on earth. Nothing could break our little bubble.” His smile turned into a frown though, as he remembered what had happened years after their marriage. He remembered her leaving with the empty promise of returning, how she never came back, how he had to turn to shoemaking as a desperate attempt to keep his child fed, how the townspeople had begun to shun him for being abandoned by his wife, how someone had written a song _specifically_ made to mock him and those _awful_ lyrics–

 

_“Solitario camina el zapatero,_

_Y la gente se pone a murmurar,_

_Dicen que tiene una pena,_

_Dicen que tiene un apena que lo hace llorar._

_Altanero, guapo y orgulloso,_

_No permine que lo quieran consolar._

_Pasa luciendo su real majestad,_

_Pasa, camina y nos mira sin vernos jamas.”_

“But then, she gave birth to Coco,” he went on, trying to ignore the lyrics ringing through his nonexistent ears, still taunting him to this very day. “There was something in my life – something more precious, more valuable than music. I wanted to raise my daughter, and she wanted to travel and let her voice be heard by the world…” He shrugged his shoulders sadly. “Life’s not fair – and sometimes, you have to make a sacrifice in order to get what you want. You understand what I’m saying, chamaco?” His eyes met the twelve year-old’s. “What kind of sacrifice are _you_ willing to make? Will it be _music_ or _family_?”

 

“But I don’t want to sacrifice _anything_!” Miguel protested. “Why do you think that just because I like music, it means that I’m going to give up on my family? Why can’t you understand what I want? That’s what family is supposed to do – they’re supposed to listen to you, and try to understand you.” He furiously scrubbed the corner of his eyes. “But you don’t understand me. You never will.”

 

Before Héctor could reply, Miguel turned his back on him and ran up the staircase.

 

Once the boy was gone, he remembered another verse from that denigrating song.

 

_“El zapatero, tiene pena y dolor,_

_El zapatero, no conoce el amor.”_

And for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help but think that maybe those lyrics were true – _maybe,_ in the midst of all his pain and sorrow, he had forgotten about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:
> 
>   1. i know i promised a flashback and all, but i just couldn’t find a way to incorporate it into this chapter – however, i _did_ manage to throw in my own take of “la bikina” for this AU, and lord did it hurt to change the pronouns and rewrite those lyrics.
>   2. the argument with imelda was harsh, yes – but you gotta realize that since she’s the one with a huge temper in canon, she’s probably going to blow a fuse and say a few harmful things, even if she doesn’t mean them. i promise, they’ll make up.
>   3. yes, this chapter is shorter than the last – but it’s because i want to save ernestina’s appearance for the next one (though i do wonder if that means i’ll have to throw in the murder reveal along with the “we’re family” bit after that _because_ of how short this chapter was).
> 

> 
> either way, i hope this wasn’t too terrible and that it was angsty enough for you guys’ delight.
> 
> have a great afternoon, and a good night! :D


	7. ernestina de la cruz & the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here it is: he chapter where we _finally_ get to see ernestina. 
> 
> also, this is 8,000 words - aka the longest chapter i've ever written PERIOD. what makes it even more astonishing is how this story's only got three chapters left. damn.

Miguel made it to the base of De la Cruz’s tower, quickly stepping in line and waiting for his turn to enter the party. He had no written invitation, no ticket, nothing that would get him into the party, yet he knew he couldn’t give up now. He _had_ to get in if he ever wanted to live out his dream, if he ever wanted to be a musician and play in the plaza.  

 

If he went back to Papá Héctor or Imelda, then he would have to throw away all his dreams and work in the shoe shop for the remainder of his life. His family wouldn’t even _try_ to listen to a word he’d say, and he’d be stuck under their supervision for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t be able to travel to other cities or even visit the capital due to all the music there, he’d have to put up with his cousins’ faux-apologies and pitying looks, music classes would be removed from his schedule every school year from then on, kids his age would give him weird stares and whisper behind his back. He would only be known as the black sheep of his family, the only music lover in an entire family who despised it.

 

He was _not_ going to go back to a life of deafening silence. He was going to get into that party and see his great-great grandmother or die trying, preferably the former, since he didn’t want to know what would happen if his time ran out.

 

A couple at the front of the line showed a fancy invitation to the security guard, who then let them onto the funicular.

 

“Have a good time.”

 

“Oh, _how exciting!_ ”

 

Pedro Infante – one of the greatest actors of the golden age of Mexican cinema as well as one of the _Tres Gallos Mexicanos_ – stepped up and gave a fancy invitation to the security guard.

 

“Oh! Señor Infante!” The security guard got a little giddy. “I’m a _big_ fan.” He held up a camera. “You mind if I–”

 

Pedro Infante nodded. The bouncer removed his head, handing it to the singer, who took the head into his hands and posed for the picture while the guard’s body took the photo.

 

“Gracias, señor!” the bouncer thanked him, putting his head back on while Pedro Infante headed past the velvet rope.

 

Miguel took a step forward once the singer had gotten onto the funicular, puffing his chest up in confidence.

 

“Got an invitation?” the guard asked, looking him up and down.

 

“It’s okay,” the twelve year-old said as he held up the guitar, striking a pose similar to his idol’s. “I’m Ernestina’s great-great grandson!”

 

The guard obviously didn’t buy it, as the boy was tossed out of line not too long after that. He scowled and went to the back of the line, determined to get in. Then, he caught sight of Los Chachalacos getting their instruments out of the back of their van. He ran up to them. “ _Disculpen, señores,_ ” he excused himself.

 

The band leader noticed him approaching them. “Hey guys, it’s _Poco Loco!_ ”

 

“You were _on_ _fire_ tonight!” a band member complimented him.

 

“You too!” he returned the praise. “But hey, musician to musician, I kind of need a favor from you…”

 

* * *

 

Los Chachalacos went up to the guard, with the leader giving the guard their invitation.

 

“Oooh, the competition winners! Congratulations, chicos!”

 

They boarded the funicular, with the sousaphone player trying to keep his instrument out of view, so that what was inside it couldn’t be seen. Once the funicular started going up, he blew into the sousaphone, causing Miguel to spill out onto the floor.

 

“Thanks, guys!” he thanked them.

 

Once they got to the top, they all filed out and parted ways. Miguel looked up at the large, lavish tower in amazement. “Wow…”

 

Miguel headed up the stairs, filled with excitement. The party was bustling and lively even on the outside as there were performers, guests and alebrije servers all dressed fancily for the occasion. There was even a fire breather breathing out flames, whose embers transformed into a bunch of little golden butterflies.

 

“Look, it’s Ernestina!” a woman cried out, pointing ahead.

 

Miguel soon caught a glimpse of his idol at the entrance of the mansion, who was waving at some people while dressed in a white mariachi dress along with a white sombrero. Her face couldn’t be seen, but the boy could see the musician’s black hair with a few grey streaks in it, still tied up into a low braided crown bun like always.

 

“De la Cruz,” he gasped, then pursued her as she headed deeper into the party. “Señora de la Cruz!” He ran into the entrance hall, trying to push his way through the crowd. “Perdóname!” He shoved his way through the room, desperately trying to catch up to the woman. “Señora de la–”

 

He stopped as he saw the hundreds of guests inside the hall, some were chatting with one another while others were dancing. There were even those dressed in swimsuits, diving into the guitar-shaped indoor pool. A dozen of film clips from De la Cruz’s movies played around the dimly-lit room.

 

“When you see your moment, you mustn’t let it go. You have to grab a hold of it and _seize it!_ ”

 

And that was exactly what he was going to do, he though as he passed by a screen which played a clip of Ernestina riding her noble steed.

 

“We’re almost there, Dante!”

 

Indeed, that was where the stray mutt’s name had come from. The boy had been inspired by that film, so much so that he named his own ‘noble steed’ after his idol’s. Unfortunately, his steed didn’t turn out to be as good as hers, nor did their bond last as long…  

 

Miguel tried to jump and see his idol above the crowd. “ _Señora de la Cruz!_ ” he called out as he jumped up and down. “Señora de la–” he stopped, unable to get the mariachi’s attention as his calls couldn’t be heard over all of the busy chatter and loud music.

 

He frowned, looking down at the ground. How was he ever going to get his great-great grandmother’s attention?

 

Just then, a clip featuring Ernestina as a well-meaning priestess played behind Miguel:

 

“But what can we do?” the nun despaired. “It is hopeless…”

 

“You must have faith, sister,” Ernestina told the nun.

 

“Oh but Madre, he will never listen.”

 

“He will listen… to _MUSIC!_ ”

 

Music… _that was it!_

 

Confidence surged within Miguel as he went and climbed a pillar to the top of the grand staircase, standing above the crowd. He took a deep breath in, then threw out the loudest grito he could muster, the cry rolling off his tongue and echoing throughout the halls.

 

Many guests, celebrities and even the DJ turned their attention towards him. Once the DJ had turned down the music, Miguel pushed aside whatever anxieties he had and began to play.

  
_“Señoras y señores, buenas tardes, buenas noches!_ _  
_ _Buenas tardes, buenas noches, señoritas y señores!”_

 

He carefully made his way down the railing, jumping onto the stairs. People were staring at him, mostly smiling and seemingly enjoying his music.

 

 _“Esta noche estar aquí es mi pasión, qué alegría!_ _  
_ _Pues la música es mi lengua y el mundo es mi familia!”_

 

At the bottom of the stairs, people immediately stepped to the sides and cleared a path for him right towards De la Cruz, who didn’t seem to hear him as she was talking to a few folks.

 

_“Pues la música es mi lengua y el mundo es mi familia!”_

 

He was overwhelmed by joyful excitement at this point as he came closer and closer to De la Cruz, who had stopped her conversation and turned to him, _finally_ noticing him at long last.

 

_“Pues la música es mi lengua,_

_Y el mundo es mi familia!”_

 

He passed by a screen where De la Cruz was singing the same song in one of her films, their voices coming together like a duet of sorts.

 

He poured all of his passion into the song and strings as he approached the woman – his _heroine._

 

_“Pues la música es mi lengua–”_

 

His performance came to an abrupt end as he fell into the pool. Everyone gasped and the only one who did anything was Ernestina, who tossed her sombrero to the side and dove straight into the pool. She swam over to the boy, removing the guitar strap from around his back before lifting him back up to the surface, onto the edge of the pool.

 

Miguel coughed up some water, gasping for air as he put his hands onto the pavement.

 

“Estás bien, niño?” Ernestina asked as she knelt down next to the boy, her voice gentle and filled with concern.

 

Miguel lifted his head up to look at the woman, mortified at the scene he had caused. The paint on his face was runny, revealing his cinnamon-colored skin.

 

“It’s you…” Ernestina gasped, her eyes widening as she recognized the child. “You – you are that boy, the one who came from the Land of the Living!”

 

The boy blinked in surprise. “You… know about me?”

 

“You are all anyone has been talking about!” she responded with a laugh. The smile on her face was soon replaced by a look of bewilderment. “Why have you come here?”

 

“I-I’m Miguel,” he replied, pushing himself up onto his knees. “Your tataranieto.”

 

Ernestina froze in shock. “I… have a _tataranieto_ _?_ ” Her mind began spinning as many thoughts and questions flooded in. It couldn’t be… _could it?_ She’d had many affairs in her life time to the point where she had lost count, but there was only _one_ incident where she had conceived a child and carried it to full-term – a baby boy, born in 1924.

 

(She had hidden the pregnancy by wearing loose clothing, so that the baby bump wouldn’t be seen by anyone. She controlled her mood swings and tried not to eat too much so that no one would suspect a thing.

 

The little boy was born during the middle of a cold night in October, in a section of the hospital where there were only a few nurses and a single doctor to witness the birth. Once the blood and fluids had been cleaned off the baby, she held him for a few minutes before naming him _Octavio._

 

After that, she paid for the nurses and doctor’s silence, and sent the child off to an orphanage. The father didn’t and wouldn’t know of his son, since their affair ended weeks after their little romp which resulted in the baby being conceived.

 

Whatever children she conceived after that were either miscarriages – sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose with some 'assistance' – or stillbirths that her manager, household staff and lawyer all covered up. 

 

In the end, she was never meant to be a mother. That was how things were, and how they’d always be.)

  
Was it possible that this boy was her descendant? Was he the  _bisnieto_ of her son?

 

“I need your blessing, so I can go back home and be a musician, just like you,” the twelve year-old went on. “The rest of our family – they wouldn’t listen.” There was an uncertain, sheepish yet hopeful look in his dark brown eyes. “But I... I was hoping that maybe you would listen to me?” 

 

The boy’s words tugged at Ernestina’s heartstrings as she understood his fear and his love for music, defying the rules set up by his family.

 

(She wasn’t always an orphan. A long, _long_ time ago, she had a family and a home back in Guadalajara.

 

But she also had a dream: to play, sing and dance for the world. She didn’t want to be a housewife like her mother, elder sisters, aunts or abuela – she wanted to be a _musician,_ like all of those female mariachis who played in the plaza.

 

At age eight, she tried to act on her dream by sneaking out to the plaza at night. She picked up the hems of her nightgown and danced, singing along to the mariachis’ music. She immersed herself in her own little musical world, and everything seemed perfect at that little moment.

 

Until her father found her and chased off the musicians, before dragging her back home for a scolding.

 

She tried to tell her father that she didn’t just love music, she _lived it._ She told him of her dream, and how she was destined for stardom.

 

He wouldn’t listen. _No daughter of mine is going to become a música estúpido like all of those other whores in the plaza,_ he snapped at her. _You can either accept your fate and be a good little obedient lady like your mother, or you give into sin and parade around the country like all of the other dishonorable, shameful mozas out there._

 

 _Please,_ she had begged him. _Just listen to me sing!_ She tried to sing to him an old folk song, only for her mother to slap her across the face after the first few lyrics left her mouth.

 

 _Oh God, what have we done to receive such a terrible, sinful little serpent as a daughter?_ her mother had asked, looking at her as though she were a demon of sorts.

 

They locked her in her room after that, and it was then that she realized that she had no family. So, she took whatever she could and climbed out of the window, fleeing the place she once called home to board a train to Santa Cecilia, where she spent the remainder of her childhood in an orphanage.)

 

This boy’s passion and the fact that he’d somehow landed himself in the Land of the Dead, snuck around and avoided all of the security _and_ barged into her party just to get _her blessing_ touched her heart. The fact that he did whatever it took just so he could pursue his dream and play music, against the wishes of his relatives – _dios,_ it was like she was looking into a mirror of another world. This boy reminded her too much of herself.

 

She saw some physical traits of herself in him along with some other traits that she couldn’t recognize, but still, he was like her in so many ways that it wasn’t hard to believe that he could be descended from her son, her little _Octavio_.

 

(He probably banned music from his household after finding out about his heritage from a nun who must’ve blurted it out, she guessed. Either that, or the boy’s father somehow found him and took him in, then banned music because it reminded him too much of her. If it was the latter’s case, then it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise, really. After leaving a trail of so many broken hearts, she knew that it was more than likely that some of her past beaus had bitter thoughts of her now.

 

In the end, she supposed her father had been right about one thing. Her musical career had led to some masculine challenges to her womanhood, and she never said no to any of it. In a way, music inadvertently led to her sleeping around, like all of the other  _putas_ in the brothels, those - those _prostitutas._

 

But hey, it was all fun while it lasted, and it wasn't her fault if the men were still sore about her turning them away afterwards. It was known that she didn't do duets, ergo it was _their_ fault that they failed to realize that sooner.)

 

Besides, she never had the chance to take care of a child in life, so surely there wasn’t any harm in relishing the chance to spend time with her great-great grandson now, was there? And there was no harm in a little projection now, either.

 

After thinking it all over, Ernestina smiled at the living child. “My boy,” she began, standing up on her feet. “With a talent like yours, how could I not listen? You can rest assured that I won’t prevent you from seizing your moment.”

 

Overcome with joy at having his great-great grandmother’s blessing, he quickly got up onto his feet and threw his arms around the woman’s torso, hugging her tightly. At long last, he finally found her – the woman he had looked up to since he was four years-old, the one person who _wouldn’t_ discourage him from chasing down his dream.

 

The mariachi’s smile grew wider as she scooped the boy up, lifting him up onto her shoulders as she let out a laugh. She hadn’t had a hug like that in _ages,_ not since she was a young woman. “ _I have a tataranieto!_ ” she proclaimed.

 

The crowd cheered and applauded at her proclamation, while Miguel rested his chin on top of the mariachi’s head, wrapping his arms around her neck as he leaned his cheek against her skull. Ernestina’s eyes darted up to him as she raised a hand and patted the boy’s leg.

 

So, this was what it was like to have a young boy in her care. What a nice feeling.

 

“We should dry up,” she said, walking through the parted crowd while carrying the boy on her shoulders. The crowd was already eagerly whispering amongst themselves about the living boy, Miguel – the tataranieto of their beloved celebrity. “Could you tell me how exactly did you find out about our relation?”

 

“Well, for years, none of our family knew _anything_ about you since my tatarabuelo erased all traces of your memory in the household,” the boy told her nervously. “He kind of hates you for leaving as does my family, to the point where music isn’t even allowed! But I have _always_ been inspired by you. I’ve watched all of your movies, listen to all of your songs – I even named a stray xolo after your noble steed, Dante! And now that I’ve met you, I can’t help but believe that this is a dream come true!”

 

Ernestina giggled, putting the boy down so that they could walk together out of the foyer, into the next hall. Not only was she pleased to hear of how he looked up to her, but his words struck a chord within her. What person in their right mind would prevent such an adorable, talented and charismatic little child from playing music? Well, no matter – after tonight, her tataranieto was going to seize his moment and become a star, and she would make sure of it. 

 

“By the way, I didn’t mean to crash the party,” Miguel apologized. “If you just give me your blessing, I can go back home and you can continue having fun at your fiesta.”

 

“My boy, there’s no need to cut things short now,” Ernestina said, looking down and putting an arm around him. “You are _mi tataranieto,_ and we’ve only just met now! Our night together has only just begun and I want you to have a fun time, but only if you want to stay, of course.”

 

“I…” Miguel was so surprised to hear that she wanted him to join her at the party,  _so happy_ to hear that she wanted him to stay around that his eyes watered with tears of joy. He hugged her again and replied with, “I’d love to stay as long as I possibly can!”

 

She returned the hug eagerly, then pulled away and grabbed his hand. “Come, Miguel. There are so many things to see, so many people to meet - let’s make the most of it tonight.”

 

The boy nodded, following his idol as she lead the way.

  
Oh, what _fun_ this night was going to be.

 

* * *

 

“Look, it’s Agustín!”

 

Imelda kept her head up as the bouncer let her board the funicular. She was lucky that Ceci had been kind enough to bring out another costume and lend it to her, and that the _idiotas_ had fallen for her disguise. Once the funicular ascended, she felt her chest pounding.

 

She felt horrible for what she had said to Miguel. She didn’t mean to hurt the boy’s feelings, _honest -_ it was just that they were both running out of time. She had to see _her_ again, and Miguel had to go back home or else he’d _die._

 

And then there was _Ernestina._ She understood how the boy had looked up to her – having grown up alongside the woman and being three years younger than her, she had also looked up to her in the same way for a while. But she also knew how the older woman could be – how she would do whatever it took to get what she wanted, how she would take what was necessary.

 

She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she let Miguel end up with a fate similar to hers.

 

* * *

 

Ernestina wedged Miguel and herself into a group laughing in the garden, which included Dolores del Río and María Félix. “Hey, del Río! Félix! Have you met my tataranieto?” she barged into the conversation, proudly introducing Miguel, seeming almost giddy.

 

“Your tataranieto?” Dolores asked, looking down at the boy. “Why, I never would’ve even thought that such a free spirit like you would ever even have a _child,_ let alone a grandson. Such a pleasant surprise, it is.”

 

“Hola, Miguel,” María greeted the boy with a smile. “It is an honor to meet the talented grandson of an equally talented artist.”

 

“H-hola!” the boy squeaked out, waving eagerly at the two actresses. “And the pleasure’s mine!”

 

“Oh, Ernestina, he’s so precious!” Dolores laughed as she looked to the mariachi.

  
“Of course he is! He’s _my_ tataranieto, after all!” the woman huffed with pride.

 

—

 

Ernestina and Miguel rode up on horseback along with some other guests, who were playing polo.

 

“My tataranieto!” the mariachi introduced him to a guest in a red shirt.

 

—

 

In the parlor, she was showing the boy off to Cantinflas and Jorge Negrete. “He’s alive, and a _musician to boot_!”

 

—

 

Miguel was showing off his dimple to a crowd of guests. “Dimple, no dimple, dimple, no dimple…”

 

“No dimple!” Ernestina laughed delightedly, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder while her hand was pointed at him.

 

—

 

A film clip was projected in the main hall. On screen, Don Hidalgo turned, raising two glasses. “To our friendship!”

  
  
“I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amiga,” Miguel acted along with the clip. He and Ernestina raised their hands as though they were holding shot glasses. “Salud!”

  
  
In the clip, the man and woman clinked their glasses together before drinking. As soon as De la Cruz took a sip from her shot glass, she spat out the drink immediately.

  
  
“ _Poison!_ ”

  
  
Miguel and Ernestina gleefully acted out the ensuing fist fight.

  
  
“You know, all of my stunts were done by me,” Ernestina boasted to him.

  
  
—

 

A small crowd consisting of Emiliano Zapata, Adela Velarde Pérez, El Santo, Jorge Negrete and María Félix swayed with their arms around each other’s shoulders as Miguel and Ernestina lead them in a chorus of _Recuérdame._

 

_“Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor,_

_Recuérdame…”_

 

* * *

 

After spending two hours together, Ernestina brought Miguel to her ofrenda room, which was loaded with piles of gifts – food, flowers, clothes and _of course,_ guitars. "All of this came from my most generous, amazing fans back in the Land of the Living," she said, gesturing to all of the offerings with one hand while she held a sleeping chihuahua alebrije in the other. Her three other alebrijes were running around, fighting over an offering of a chicken leg. "They leave me more offerings than I know what to do with!"

 

Miguel looked around the room, absorbing it all in. It was all so wonderful, and yet it also felt a little… hollow and empty. Ernestina lived here, all by herself with no one to keep her company except her alebrijes and servants, but that type of company was different than the company of family.

 

Was this what it was like to choose the path of music?

 

Ernestina noticed the morose look on the boy's face, along with how he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Is it too much? You look overwhelmed."

 

"N-no," he fibbed. "It's all… great."

 

" _But_ …?" she pressed on.

 

"It's just…" he let out a sigh. "Nearly everyone in the entire country admires you, including me. I have looked up to you my entire life. You're the woman who actually did it! But…" There was a pause. "Was there ever any sort of regret? Choosing music over… everything else?"

 

She knelt down and her eyes met his. "It was hard saying goodbye to the town I grew up in, heading off on my own…"

 

"Leaving your family behind?"

 

" _Sí_ ," she answered with a sad smile, nodding. "But I could not have done it differently." She shrugged, then placed her hand on his shoulder again. "You cannot deny what you are meant to be, what you are destined for." Her eyes glinted with determination and zest. "And you, _mi querido tataranieto,_ are meant for music! Being a musician is in your destiny!"

 

Miguel smiled, his chest swelling as he felt truly validated for the first time in his life.

 

Ernestina walked over to the window, with the boy following after her. “You and I have a lot in common – we are artists, Miguel. We cannot belong to just a single family. _El mundo_ _es nuestra familia!_ ” She gestured out of the window to the lively city beyond her mansion. Suddenly, she got very enthusiastic, bouncing a little as fireworks began to go off. “Ooooh! _Look!_ The fireworks have begun!”

 

Miguel looked out the window, watching colorful explosives form shapes in the sky. Still, a part of him wasn’t entirely happy, knowing that he still had to make a sacrifice of either family or music in order to get what he wanted. He wished she could’ve given a different response... maybe then, he would be a little more satisfied.  

 

* * *

 

“Soon, the party will move across town for my _‘Sensational Sunrise’!_ ” Ernestina explained as they descended the staircase into the empty hall. She put her fourth chihuahua down, then gasped as an idea came into her mind. “Miguel, you must come to the show! You will be my guest of honor! For the finale, you and I could perform _Recuérdame_ together! It’ll be our first duet!”

 

Miguel’s eyes lit up. “You mean that _you_ want _me_ to be a part of your show?”

 

She beamed at him, letting out a chuckle. “Of course, my boy!”

 

Miguel’s chest swelled, then deflated as he looked at his hands, which were now completely skeletal. “I can’t stick around for the show,” he said dispiritedly as he lifted his shirt, revealing his see-through torso. “I have to get home _before_ sunrise, or else I’ll die.”

 

“  _Oi_!” She pulled her head back, grimacing at the site of the skeletal transformation. She turned away, looking around for some marigolds. “I really _do_ need to get you home.” She walked over to a vase at the bottom of the staircase, plucking a marigold petal from it. “It has been a true honor to have met you, my tataranieto,” she spoke as she walked over to him. “It fills me with such sorrow to see you go, Miguel. I can only hope to see you again soon.”

 

Miguel stared at her. “I hope you don’t mean very soon.”

 

“Well, yes, err– oh, you know what I mean by that,” she giggled nervously. She knelt down on one knee, laying a hand on his shoulder while holding a petal out to him. “Miguel, I give you my bless–”

 

“We agreed on a trade, gatito!”

 

They turned, and Miguel gasped as he saw a familiar figure standing far off in the shadows.

 

“Who are you and what is the meaning of this?” Ernestina asked warily, tilting her head to the side.

 

From the shadows, Imelda stepped into the light, dressed as Agustín Lara.

 

“Oh, a drag king!” Ernestina exclaimed in a perky manner, then had a confused look on her face. “I, uh, don’t recall inviting any crossdressers, but… um…”

 

Imelda rolled her eyes, taking off the wig and the disguise to reveal her actual hair and clothing. “You actually thought I was a drag king? _God,_ you’re more stupid than I thought you were!” She looked towards Miguel and marched over to him. “We had a deal that if I helped you out, then you would take my photo and put it up on an ofrenda. Did you forget that promise, or have you decided to ignore the fact that you agreed to this trade?”

 

“Do you know this, uh… woman?” Ernestina asked Miguel as she grabbed his shoulder, pulling him a little closer to her.

 

“We met somewhere near the beginning of the night,” he replied. “She told me how you two knew one another, and that she’d get me to you if I helped her out.”

 

Ernestina slowly recognized the other woman as she stepped closer, photo in hand. “I-Imelda, is it you?”

 

Imelda got down to Miguel’s level, holding out the photo to him. “I’m not mad at you, Miguel. I just want you to put my photo up.”

 

Just as Miguel was ready to take the photo, Ernestina grabbed it. “Mi amiga…” She looked from the photo to the worn out, forgotten skeleton kneeling before her. “Estás siendo olvidado.”

 

Imelda sprung to her feet, her eyes narrowing at her old friend. “And the only one who’s at fault here is _you,_ Tina!”

 

Ernestina winced at the nickname, holding a hand out as though she were trying to shield herself from the other woman’s anger. “Imelda, por favor–”

 

“You _stole_ my songs and the guitar my husband gave me as an anniversary gift!” Imelda accused her, gesturing to a screen showing a living Ernestina singing outside of a man’s window. “You could’ve been decent enough to at least credit me for them, but _no!_ The magnificent Ernestina de la Cruz only does solos!”

 

Miguel blinked in surprise. “What?” He remembered what the woman had said about teaching Ernestina how to play, and how genuine she sounded. Was it possible that…?

 

“I’m only being forgotten because you chose to be a lying _buitre_ instead of telling the truth!” Imelda hissed.

 

“That’s crazy talk,” Miguel cut into the conversation. “De la Cruz wrote all of her own songs. She would never resort to theft.”

 

“Tell him the truth, you _lying_ _cunt,_ ” Imelda growled at Ernestina. “Either you tell him the truth, or I’ll have to break it to him.”

 

“Imelda, I never meant to take credit for the songs,” Ernestina spoke softly, trying to keep her mask from slipping in front of the boy. “We made a wonderful dueto, but – _you_ _died,_ and I…” she tried to sound as faultless and optimistic as possible: “I only sang your songs because I wanted to keep a part of your memory alive and with me at all times!”

 

“Oh, well isn’t that just the _sweetest?_ ” Imelda asked, sarcasm oozing from her tone. “What do you take me for, an _idiota?_ You and I both know that that’s _far_ from the truth. _For fuck’s sake,_ you didn’t even inform my family of my death – you just took the songs and basked in all of the fame and wealth.”

 

“So you really _did_ play together as a dueto,” Miguel mumbled. It was all going downhill, but he still couldn’t figure out what exactly was wrong.

 

“Look,” Imelda breathed, trying to sound more calm. “I didn’t come here just to argue with you. All I want is for you to make it right by letting Miguel put my photo up–”

  
“ _Imelda_ …” Ernestina shook her head, stepping away from the other woman to continue looking at the photo.

 

“So I can cross the bridge and see my little girl,” Imelda finished. “Ernestina, remember the night I left?”

 

Ernestina didn’t look at her. “That was a long time ago,” she said in a low tone.

 

“You and I drank together,” the younger woman went on. “And you promised that you would move heaven and earth for your amiga. Well, now’s your chance to do that.”

 

“ _Heaven and earth?_ Like in the film?” Miguel asked, remembering the line from one of the films he’d seen on the screen earlier.

 

She looked at him with confusion. “What?”

 

“That’s Don Hidalgo’s toast,” he clarified. “In the De la Cruz movie, _El Camino a Casa._ ” He looked around and pointed to the film screen across the room, which was projecting the movie clip. “Look, it’s in there.”

 

Imelda looked up at the screen, taking a few steps closer as she saw Ernestina along with a fat man in his fifties.

 

“Never were truer words spoken,” said Don Hidalgo. “This calls for a toast!” He held a glass of tequila in his hand. “To our friendship! I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amiga.”

 

“But in the movie, the drink is laced with formaldehyde,” Miguel added.

 

Then, Imelda remembered something. “That night, Ernestina… the night I was leaving. We had been performing on the road, traveling for months and I grew tired and homesick, so I packed up my songs and guitar.”

 

* * *

 

December 7th, 1921

Mexico City, Mexico

12:30 P.M.

 

 _“Are you really going to leave now?” Ernestina asked in dismay as she watched Imelda pack her bags. “Do you know how close we are to reaching our dream?” She held a hand up, pinching her fingers to illustrate a point. “We’re_ this close! _You can’t quit on me now, Imelda!”_

_“This dream was yours, not mine,” Imelda said as she turned to her. “I only came along because you told me that I shouldn’t let my talent go to waste and that my daughter would be well-fed, but I can’t bring myself to go on like this any further. Don’t get your skirt in a knot about it. You’ll live if I’m not here.”_

_Ernestina grabbed the ends of her friend’s suitcase. “You know that I need your songs, Imelda!” she insisted, trying her best not to raise her voice._

_Imelda pulled her suitcase out of the older woman’s grasp. “I’m going home whether you like it or not, Ernestina,” she said firmly. “Hate me if you want, but I’m not going to stick around just to please you.”_

_Ernestina’s eyes were filled with a dark fury for a few seconds, before she managed to simmer down. “Oh, how could I ever hate you?” she asked calmly, just as Imelda was about to head out the door. “If you must go, then I will send you off with a toast.” She poured tequila into two glasses, handing one to her friend. “To our friendship. Yo movería cielo y tierra por ti, mi amiga. Salud!”_

_Imelda clinked her glass against Ernestina’s, then drank from it. Not once did she notice the malignance that shone in her so-called amiga’s eyes, even if it was for a second._

 

* * *

 

“You walked me to the train station,” she went on. “I felt a pain in my stomach and started coughing up blood, but I shrugged it off as something I ate… or something I drank. When I woke up, I was dead.” She began breathing in and out as she finally pieced it all together, clicking in her head. “You… you laced my drink with formaldehyde... you _poisoned_ me.”

 

“Now, now, there’s no need to confuse fiction for reality,” Ernestina tried to calm her down.

 

“I just thought it was the world punishing me for my mistakes,” Imelda kept going on, ignoring the other woman. “I would’ve never thought that you’d stoop so low as to…” She clenched her jaw, then let out a cry of anger as she tackled Ernestina to the ground. “ _COMO PUDISTE?!_ We were best friends! _Did that mean nothing to you?!_  ”

 

“Imelda!” Miguel cried out in fear for his friend, watching the cat fight between the two women.

 

“Security!” Ernestina called out as Imelda took her remaining shoe off, striking her across the face with it several times.

 

“You took everything I loved away from me until I had nothing left!” Imelda screeched as the guards pulled her off the mariachi, dragging her away. “You dirty, deceitful whore! _You bruja!_ ”

 

“Have this woman taken care of,” Ernestina ordered as she stood up. “She clearly isn’t feeling well at the moment.”

 

"I only wanted to go home!" Imelda screamed in sorrow, struggling to break out of the guards' hold on her as they dragged her out of the door. "Stop! Let go of me! _No_!" 

 

The door slammed shut, with her cries echoing throughout the halls. 

 

"My apologies," Ernestina said as she straightened herself up. "Now, where were we?"

 

"You were going to give me your blessing," Miguel answered, feeling a little uneasy around the mariachi. He didn't want to stay any longer, now that he knew that his idol – the woman he had looked up to for so many years – was a murderer and a thief. He felt like vomiting, knowing that a murderer's blood ran through his veins. 

 

Ernestina nodded, taking the marigold petal out from her pocket. "Yes, uh... sí." She looked at it in contemplation. “Miguel, my reputation... it is very important to me. I would hate to have you think that I–”

 

“That you murdered Imelda and stole her songs?” Miguel tried to keep himself calm, in order to not look too scared in front of her. If he didn’t look too scared, then she wouldn’t suspect that he doubted her and she wouldn’t try to hurt him.

 

Ernestina let out a low, eerie laugh. “You don’t think that.” There was an ominous look in her eyes now, and her kind mask began slipping. “Do you?”

 

“I – no!” the twelve year-old lied, though there was doubt in his voice. “Everyone knows that you’re a heroine, not a thieving killer…” But if she hadn’t committed the murder, then why was she so quick to have the guards dispose of Imelda? Why didn’t she try to convince her that it was a misunderstanding and that she hadn’t poisoned her, instead of going for that option? There was no other way to interpret De la Cruz’s choices as it was all clear as day: she poisoned her best friend, stole her songs and left her to be forgotten.

 

She continued to stare at him eerily, then put Imelda’s photo in her pocket.

 

“M-Mamá Ernestina?” he stammered, trembling and growing more fearful. “My blessing?”

 

(It was in this time that Ernestina de la Cruz remembered her principles:

  * She always kept a smile on her face, no matter what she had to deal with that day. If she was being interviewed and asked personal questions, she smiled. If it was a sad occasion, she’d try to smile in spite of it. If she was being toasted, then she had the biggest smile on her face. Even if she was being referred to as a nickname she hated for personal reasons like ‘Tina’, she  _had_ to try not to frown.
  * She would seize her moment, whatever it took as well as take what was necessary. It wasn’t  _her_  fault that Imelda wanted to give up on their dream. She needed those songs and the guitar if she was ever going to make it big – if she was ever going to prove her parents wrong, and prove to the world that she was the most magnificent musician out there.
  * She didn’t do duets and there were only two occasions where she tried – one of which lasted for quite a while, until  _someone_ decided to bail on her. The other time was her offering her little tataranieto a chance to sing with her and he refused that offer, which was now guaranteed to never be given again now that he knew something he shouldn’t know.
  * Never let anything taint her name, whether it be an old friend, past lover, illegitimate child – she wasn’t going to let  _anything_ ruin or threaten her memory.



These were the principles she had set up for herself and followed all her life, and principles that she would continue to follow in death.)

 

She crumbled the marigold petals into small bits. “Security!” she called, and the guards quickly came in. “Take care of Miguel,” she ordered, brushing the bits of petal off her fingers before going up the stairs. “His stay here has been extended… permanently.”

 

“ _What?!_ ” he cried out, struggling as the guards grabbed him by the shoulders. “But I’m your _family!_ ”

 

“ _Y Imelda era mi mejor amiga,_ ” Ernestina said as she peered over her shoulders, towards him. “Success isn’t something in the market that comes for free, Miguel.” She stood at the top of the staircase and shrugged. “You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to… _seize your moment._ ” She grinned, winking as the boy let out a gasp. “Surely, you understand and besides, you said you wanted to stay as long as you possibly could. Come morning, we’ll have all the time in the world together.”

 

“ _NO!_ ” Miguel felt like he was living in a horror movie as he was dragged out the back of the mansion, towards a cenote. This whole time, everything he knew and loved was all a lie. “Let me go!” he demanded as he tried to fight the guards off. 

 

And they did let him go, into the large sinkhole. He screamed as he fell four stories down, plunging into the depths of the pool below. He struggled to bring himself up to the surface as he never learned how to swim, so he kicked his legs and thrashed his arms around, attempting to swim up before he felt himself sinking.

 

Luckily, two arms wrapped around him, pulling him up to the surface and setting him down on a small stone island.

 

“Estás bien, gatito?”

 

Miguel’s eyes opened as he recognized the familiar, gentle voice. “Imelda!” He threw himself at the woman, their arms wrapping around one another in a hug. “You were right! I wish I had gone back to my family!”

 

Imelda ran her hands down his back, cradling him in her arms as though he were a small child. “Hey, don’t worry… it’s alright.”

 

“Even though they told me not to become like De la Cruz, I didn’t listen,” Miguel sobbed into her chest. “I practically told them that I didn’t care if they forgot me! I said I didn’t care if I was on their ofrenda!”

 

“Don’t cry,” she tried to soothe him. “It’s alright.”

 

“I made it clear back there that I didn’t care about family,” he whimpered, his body wracking with sobs.

 

All of a sudden, a golden light shimmered through Imelda’s bones, causing her to stumble back and fall to the ground.

 

“Imelda!” The boy knelt down by the woman, concerned for her. “W-why are you glowing like that?”

 

“She’s starting to forget me,” Imelda murmured as she looked up at the boy.

 

“Who is she?”

 

“My daughter,” Imelda answered sadly, trying to blink back some tears.

 

“So that’s why you wanted to cross that bridge,” Miguel realized.

 

“I wanted to see her one last time,” she told him, her voice wavering as she tried her hardest not to cry in front of him. “I should’ve remained in Santa Cecilia. I wish I could apologize to her. I wish I could tell her that mamá was on her way home, and that she loved her from the bottom of her heart.” She looked down. “My little Socorro…”

 

Miguel was staggered to hear his great-grandmother’s name come out of the woman’s mouth. “ _Socorro?_ ” He reached into his hoodie’s pocket, pulling out the photo of Papá Héctor, Mamá Coco and the faceless woman.

 

Imelda was confused as he showed her the photo. She grabbed it, looking at it as though she’d seen a ghost. “This photo… where did you get it?”

 

He pointed a finger to his great-grandmother. “Coco is my bisabuela.” He pointed to his great-great-grandfather. “This is Papá Héctor, my tatarabuelo.” Finally, he pointed to the faceless woman. “Then, this is… you?”

 

She looked at the photo, then at the boy as it finally both hit them. “We’re…”

 

“Family?” they finished in unison, both shocked at the revelation of their relation to each other.

 

Miguel smiled at his tatarabuela in relief, thankful that he was related to such a kind, caring soul instead of a lying _asesina._ Not to mention, it also explained why he saw so much of his mother, grandmother and even his cousin in her. 

 

Imelda smiled sadly as she ran a finger over her baby girl's face in the photo. "I always held onto this hope that I'd see mi bebita again someday – that she'd miss me and put my photo up to show that, but that obviously never happened. And you want to know what the worst part is? Even if I never crossed the bridge, you'd think that at least I'd be able to see her when she passed on... but no, not even that can happen. She's the only one in the Land of the Living who remembers me."

 

"When she dies, you'll disappear from this world," Miguel commented, feeling as though he was about to cry at the injustice of everything. "You'll be forgotten, and she'll never get to see her mother again..."

 

She nodded her head. “You may know _Recuérdame_ as some huge ballad, but it is so much more than that. It was a song I wrote for Coco a month after she was born,” the woman explained. “I used to sing it to her every night, and she’d join in.”

 

With that, she began to sing the song as it truly was – a tender lullaby, not some over-the-top, bastardized ballad. As she sang, she thought back to all the times she’d spent with her three year-old daughter.

 

_“Recuérdame, hoy me tengo que ir mi amor,_

_Recuérdame, no llores por favor._

_Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás,_

_A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar._

 

_Recuérdame, aunque tengo que emigrar,_

_Recuérdame, si mi guitarra oyes llorar._

_Ella con su triste canto te acompañará, hasta que en mis brazos tú estés,_

_Recuérdame…”_

 

“She stole your guitar and your songs…” Miguel trailed off, clenching his fists in rage. “That _bruja_ is the one who the world should’ve forgot, not you!”

 

“The song wasn’t meant to be heard by the world,” Imelda stated quietly, shaking her head. “It was only meant to be for Coco.” She frowned, giving him a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry for letting you down, Miguel. I wish I could’ve been a better tatarabuela for you.”

 

“You _are_ a good tatarabuela!” Miguel insisted. “A minute ago, I thought I was related to that _asesina!_ You are a _huge_ upgrade!” Despite the doubtful look she gave him, he continued, “My whole life, there was something that made me different… and I never knew where it came from.” He put his hands over hers. “But now I know that it comes from _you!_ I’m glad that we’re related!” He stood up, kicked the water and shouted at the top of his lungs, towards the hole above: “I don’t care about her past mistakes! _ESTOY ORGULLOSA DE QUE ELLA SEA MI TATARABUELA!_ ”

 

Imelda perked and stood up, letting out a loud shout: “ _TRRRRRRAAAAAI-YAAAI-YAYAAAAY! Y estoy orgulloso de que sea MI TATARANIETO!_ ”

 

Suddenly, as the echoes of their yells faded, there was the sound of a familiar bark. Miguel’s face lit up as he saw Dante peek through the opening of the cenote. “Dante!”

 

Pepita landed next to the dog, letting out a loud roar. Héctor laughed as a wave of relief washed over him upon seeing his tataranieto. However, his expression changed into one of displeasure once his eyes landed on his estranged wife. “ _Imelda._ ”

 

Imelda grew anxious at the sight of her husband. “H-Héctor! You look… very distinguished.”

  
Miguel rolled his eyes at the woman’s attempt at complimenting the old man. _Lord,_ did these two need to just kiss and talk it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, if that was a pain to write, then the next one’s going to be a _nightmare._
> 
> like almost always, here’s some end notes for this rollercoaster of a chapter:
> 
>   1. the switches with all of the celebrities’ cameos is kind of based on the fact of who got swapped in this fic – agustín lara was once of the inspirations for héctor, maría félix was imelda’s inspiration (though i honestly thought dolores del río was tbh, idk why tho lol), and pedro infante and jorge negrete inspired ernesto’s character (along with vicente fernandez, but he’s not dead yet tho so *shrugs*). idk if i wrote the celebrities’ cameos well enough while they lasted so i took a safe route, but nevertheless i think i did okay? i think.
>   2. ernestina – _oh boy,_ ernestina! a lot of people tend to portray ernesto as just a villain with no remorse – which i don’t have _that_ big of a problem with, unless it’s pre-canon stuff where he’s abusing héctor PRIOR to the whole leaving santa cecilia and the murder thing & straight up trying to kill coco because _what the fuck man_ – but i wanted to kind of shed a bit of light of ernestina in this fic to show that she’s still human, y’know? her past with her family is kind of sort of the thing that leads up to her meeting imelda – but obviously, that friendship didn’t last very long lol. she also still has a lot of issues, obviously – mainly with her trying to project onto miguel as a way of “making up” for her lost time with her son, how she tries to shift the blame from herself and basically her entire mental state in general.
> 

> 
> i realize my interpretation of her isn’t the best and that i did copy a lot of ernesto’s lines from canon and used them for her, but hey, at least i’m not afraid to admit that.
> 
> anyway, moving on from that note:
> 
>   1. ernestina telling miguel that they’ll get to spend all of the time in the world together when morning comes is my little twist on the “seize your moment” scene – because when i watched the film, i always felt that ernesto at least cared for miguel up until the sunrise spectacular thing where he found out that _oh fuck this is héctor’s kid_ and went all like _i hope your little ass knows how to fly_ before throwing him off the building. i took my own little liberties of working with that, blending it with the fact that ernestina never got to raise a child and is thus deciding that she’s gonna make sure this kid stays with her at all times and doesn’t blurt out the truth, since she thinks he is her son’s bisnieto.
>   2. also speaking of her past children: listen, there’s _no way_ a woman can have so many affairs and only get pregnant once, especially in 1900s mexico. abortion wasn’t really legal until 1931, and even then it was only under certain circumstances such as a child conceived out of assault or if the mother wasn’t fit to raise the child – hence the whole miscarriages and stillbirths thing, which her loyal workers all cover up because hey, it’s one of mexico’s greatest stars. you don’t want to fuck with that. and yeah, it’s kinda a taboo thing – but hey, sometimes you gotta delve into that once in a while, especially when you have to explain certain things like 'omg does she actually have illegitimate kids or not.'
>   3. not much to say about the whole scene between imelda and miguel other than that imelda’s a wonderful (and sometimes fowl) tatarabuela, miguel’s too pure for everything and i love their bond.
> 

> 
> with that all said, i hope this was a good chapter! be prepared for the next one, because it’s gonna be a _doozy_.


	8. the sensational sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi my name is sol and i never know when to take a break and rest because i really wanted to get this chapter done. now, we have only two chapters left :')
> 
> in other words: enjoy, and excuse me while i go sob because _my heart_

The four of them rode on Pepita’s back as she flew them out of the cenote. Miguel sat in front of Imelda, and few inches away from Papá Héctor mostly because the patriarch refused to sit next to the matriarch.

 

Miguel rubbed the back of Dante’s neck. “Dante, you knew Imelda was my tatarabuela all along!” He hugged the dog. “You _are_ a true spirit guide!” He grabbed the dog’s face and began to praise him: “Quién es un buen guía espiritual? _Tú eres!_ ”

 

Dante licked Miguel’s face, but suddenly froze up. Miguel looked down, noticing that the dog’s paws were changing from a dark grey to bright neon colors. He bit his paws, attempting to stop the colors from spreading, but stopped as the colors traveled all the way over to his head, stopping at his now green nose.

 

“Dios mío…” Miguel was in awe at the scene.

 

The transformation was completed by the sprouting of two multicolored wings on the xolo’s back, causing him to bark happily and proceed to jump off Pepita’s back in order to test his wings.

 

“ _Dante!_ ” Miguel cried out in horror as his dog fell. He looked on in fear, thinking his companion was surely done for, only to let out a sigh of relief as he heard the dog bark along with the flapping of two small wings. He turned and smiled at the new spirit guide. “Gracias a dios!”

 

—

 

Pepita flew in and landed in a small plaza, where the rest of the Rivera family had been waiting. They rushed over to Miguel and pulled him into a tight hug, relieved to see that he was alright.

 

“Miguel!”

 

“Miguelito!”

 

“Ay, _thank goodness_ you’re okay!”

 

“Miguel, where have you been?”

 

“Does it matter where he’s been, Teto? He’s–”

 

“–back now, and that’s all that matters!”

 

Miguel pulled away from the hug, catching Dante as the xolo alebrije clumsily landed in his arms. He hugged the dog’s neck, then set him down before Pepita gave him a big lick and nuzzled his head.

 

Héctor pulled Miguel into a tight hug. “Mijo, you nearly scared me to a second death! It’s a miracle that we even found you in time!” His gaze shifted to his wife, and soon there was anger in his expression. “And _you!_ Haven’t you done enough?”

 

Imelda flinched at her husband’s tone. “Héctor–”

 

“You wanted nothing to do with me in life, so I’ll have _nothing_ to do with you in death,” he cut her off, years of heartache evident in both his voice and eyes. He put both of his hands on Miguel’s shoulders. “He spends less than an hour with you, and I have to pull him out of some death pit!”

 

“I wasn’t in there because of her!” Miguel asserted, getting in between his bisabuelos before things could get uglier. “She was in there because of _me._ ” He looked down at the ground in guilt. “She was only trying to get me home, but I didn’t listen because I wanted to get to De la Cruz so bad because I thought _she_ was my tatarabuela.” He looked up, noticing now that Héctor looked disgusted and honestly a little offended. He quickly continued in order to avoid being interrupted, “I didn’t want to listen to Imelda, but she was right… family comes first, before anything else.” He looked at the woman behind him, giving her a smile before looking back to his tatarabuelo. “I’ll accept your blessing _and_ your conditions, but only if you accept _my_ condition: we take back her photo from De la Cruz.”

 

“Wh–”

 

“So she can cross over and see Coco again,” the twelve year-old went on. “Imelda is a part of this family, therefore she should be on our ofrenda.”

 

“She _left_ this family and spat on our sacred culture by doing so!”

 

“But she soon realized the error of her ways, and tried to come back to you and Coco!” Miguel argued against his tatarabuelo, defending his tatarabuela and standing with her. “The only reason she never made it home is because De la Cruz laced her drink with formaldehyde! It was _De la Cruz_ who tore this family apart, and left your daughter without a mother! Imelda isn’t to blame for any of this!”

 

Héctor looked at Imelda, seeking confirmation that the boy’s words were true.

 

“It’s true, Héctor,” the twenty-two year-old said softly, shifting nervously under her husband’s gaze.

 

Héctor felt as though his entire world had come crashing down on him. So this whole time, his wife hadn’t abandoned him or their daughter. She had died on the way home, because of that _vile bruja,_ Ernestina. Ernestina, who treated him like the scum at the bottom of her boot and was too dependent on her friend – Ernestina, the uppity whore who _tainted_ his daughter’s lullaby, his wife’s courting gift to him _and_ stole the wedding guitar he’d given his wife.

 

And not once did he listen to her when she first approached him in death – not once had he taken the time to even consider that _maybe,_ there was a different reason as to why she never returned. Instead, he not only removed her from their photo, but from their entire family. He left her to rot and be forgotten. She, the wife he loved with all of his heart and soul both in life and death, had suffered all because of _his_ anger.

 

“All this time, I thought you had left me alone to raise a child,” he admitted softly. “I never thought that you… oh, Imelda… _lo siento mucho._ If I had just let you speak all those years ago, then maybe we could have avoided this entire–”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ go blaming yourself–” she stopped, falling to the ground with a golden shimmer flashing through her bones.

 

“Imelda!” Miguel ran over to the woman, rubbing her back gently.

 

“Coco,” she rasped, shakily pushing herself back up. “She’s…”

 

“Ella te está olvidando,” Héctor whispered in horror. What had he done? She had tried to come home, and he left her off the ofrenda and tried to make their daughter forget her. It was because of him that his wife was suffering the Final Death. His wife, the woman he had known since he was a teenager, a woman who had not a single evil bone in her body – a woman whom he had hurt in so many ways, yet never stopped loving.

 

“You don’t have to forgive her,” their tataranieto told him as he helped steady Imelda as she got back on her feet. “But family is family, which means that no one gets left behind,  _especially_ not her.”

 

“Oh god, Mel… what have I done?” Héctor asked, looking at his wife. “In life, I tried my hardest to rid myself of any memories of you. I tried to rid Coco of her memories of you because I was so upset, but now that I know… could you ever forgive me for my foolishness?”

 

“ _My forgiveness?_ ” Imelda asked incredulously, then shook her head at him. “Héctor, no. If anything, _I_ should be asking for _your_ forgiveness. I left with Ernestina, and left both you and our daughter behind. I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to ask for my forgiveness now,” he said, his ruby-colored eyes meeting her soft brown peepers. “I forgive you. You were murdered on the way home by that wretched _sirena._ If anything, _she’s_ the one who deserves to be forgotten, not you.” He looked to Miguel. “Alright, chamaco, we have a deal. We get her photo back from De la Cruz, and you will go home with _no more music._ Does that sound fair?”

 

The boy nodded. “When I said family comes first, I meant it,” he answered. “If giving up on music means that Mamá Imelda will be safe, then I have no argument against your conditions. Her afterlife matters more than the chance to play a guitar.”

 

“Such a sweet sentiment,” the patriarch muttered. Then, he asked his tataranieto: “So, what’s your plan on getting to that harlot?”

 

“I think I’ve got an idea,” the twelve year-old replied, smirking as his brow furrowed.

 

* * *

 

At the Sensational Sunrise celebration, thousands of guests quickly filled in the seats as Agustín began to sing his opening song. Once he was finished and the crowd was all gathered in the amphitheater, Frida's act began. The dancers hopped out of the papaya and began to dance, while the Riveras – who all wore Frida disguises – snuck out from behind, quickly heading backstage.

 

“Bueno suerte, muchacho,” Frida wished them good luck as they passed by her.

 

“Gracias, Frida!” Miguel expressed his gratitude to her quickly as he and his family rushed away.

 

The Riveras rid themselves of their disguises. Miguel ripped off his unibrow, wincing at the pain. Òscar twitched as Dante snuck up from under his skirt. Víctor quickly threw off his wig and costume, scratching his body all over due to how much it had itched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Imelda help Papá Héctor out of his disguise. What surprised him was how willing the patriarch was in letting her help him, _and_ how he saw some of his mother’s features in the woman.

 

Once everyone rid themselves of their disguises, they all huddled together.

 

“Todos recuerdan el plan?” Miguel asked.

 

“Obtener la foto de Imelda–” Víctor started.

 

“–dáselo a Miguel,” Julio continued.

 

“Manda a Miguel a casa,” Héctor finished.

 

“Tienes tus pétalos?” Imelda asked, holding up a petal. Everyone lifted up their petals.

 

With that, they ran out of the backstage corridor, ready to spring into action. “Now, all we have to do is find De la Cruz!” Héctor exclaimed, his eyes focused on his family.

 

“Sí?” Ernestina turned around the corner with a smile on her face, adjusting her bowtie.

 

“ _AH!_ ” Héctor squawked as he turned to the woman, while the rest of the family backed up against the wall.

 

Ernestina stopped adjusting her bowtie, her smile dropping. “Don’t I… know you?”

 

Héctor’s brow furrowed in rage. When he first met the woman in their teen years, she had always taunted him about his looks and how unmanly he was whenever Imelda wasn’t around – and now that he knew that she murdered his wife and tried to kill their tataranieto, he just about had enough of the _zorra._ He raised his hand and smacked her across the face as hard as he could, not caring about how it went against his upbringing. “ _ESO ES POR ASESINAR EL AMOR DE MI VIDA!_ ” he shouted, balling up his fist and raising it to her face.

 

The woman backed away from his fists, rubbing the place where he had hit her. “Que? Te quien?”

 

Imelda came out from around the corner, standing by her husband. “He’s talking about _me!_ ” she exclaimed, pointing at herself before turning to her husband. “Soy el amor de tu vida?”

 

“No, I said that just because I want to be dramatic,” Héctor replied sarcastically, his signs lighting up a bit.

 

“ _Imelda?!_ ” Ernestina’s eyes narrowed. “How did you–”

 

Héctor struck the mariachi again, making her head spin in place. “And _that’s_ for trying to murder and kidnap our nieto!”

 

Ernestina put her hands on the side of her head, keeping it in place before moving her hands to the sore area. “ _Nieto?_ ” she asked, perplexed at the man’s words. “Who are you talking–”

 

“He’s talking about me!” Miguel declared, revealing himself to the woman.

 

Ernestina’s eyes narrowed at the boy. “ _You!_ I told you that after tonight–” Her eyes went wide as she looked at Miguel, then at Imelda, finally realizing where the unrecognizable traits in the boy came from. He was Imelda’s tataranieto, not hers.  _Sh_ _e had no family._ “Eres el nieto de Imelda…?”

 

Miguel didn’t respond to the mariachi’s question though, as his eyes fell upon her pocket. “La foto!” he gasped, pointing to it.

 

The rest of the family came from around the corner, eyes filled with anger as they held up their fists. Ernestina smiled sheepishly, then ran off upon realizing that she was outnumbered.

 

“DESPUÉS DE ELLA!” Héctor yelled as he and the others chased after her.

 

Ernestina knocked over a group of sugar skull dancers dressed up as her, sprinting to where her rising platform was set up. “Seguridad, ayúdenme!” she called out to her guards, who looked up from the box of doughnuts they were digging into.

 

“Dijiste _‘el amor de tu vida’,_ ” Imelda repeated her husband’s words as she jogged next to him.

 

“There’s a reason I never filed for divorce,” Héctor stated simply.

 

“Ah, so you _do_ love her!” Miguel teased, grinning smugly as he could clearly see that his bisabuelos’ still had feelings for each other.

 

The security guards ran, ready to stop them when Julio charged and kicked one’s trasero. Òscar took Felipe’s arms and whipped two of the guards’ traseros with it, while the younger twin headbutted another.

 

Miguel, Imelda, Víctor and Rosita were stopped by more guards who tried wrangling them, but were no match for them in the end. Víctor took off one of his boots and smacked one of the guard’s heads off, scarily reminding Imelda of herself but with most of her husband's appearance. Rosita slammed another guard’s head into the ground with some help from Miguel.

 

Héctor reached Ernestina just as she shoved the stagehand out of the way and tried opening the door. He roughly grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn around, taking the photo out of her pocket. Ernestina grabbed his hands, trying to force pry them open to grab the photo.

 

Miguel heard his tatarabuelo yelp and rushed to assist him, tackling Ernestina to the ground. Héctor fell back while gripping the photo, holding it up in victory. “Miguel, I’ve got the photo!”

 

Miguel got off De la Cruz with a victorious smile on his face, but soon tried to flee as three guards chased after him.

 

Just as Héctor was about to step in and help, the platform beneath him began to rise up into the air, lifting him to the stage. Ernestina quickly got up on her feet and ran up the stairs to the stage as the platform continued to rise up.

 

One of the guards roughly seized Miguel, only for Dante to fly in and knock his head off. “Rápido! Venga!” Miguel cried out, signaling for Imelda, Víctor and Rosita to follow after him up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

“Señoras y señores… presentando al músico más magnífico de la historia de México… _ERNESTINA DE LA CRUZ!_ ”

 

The platform finally rose onto the stage, stopping as the spotlight shone on Héctor, who winced at all of the bright lights shining on him. To make things even ‘better’, neon lights flashed behind him, with the oranges lights forming a guitar while the platinum lights spelled out Ernestina’s name.

 

“Tina!” the audience cried, applauding and cheering with admiration for their heroine.

 

The cheering came to an end, however, as the cameraman angled towards where Héctor was standing, showing the man onscreen. The Rivera patriarch froze up as he saw that everyone was paying attention to him, _especially_ Ernestina and her guards.

 

“Sácalo del escenario!” she ordered, angrily pointing at the shoemaker.

 

When Miguel, Imelda, Víctor and Rosita came up to the left side of the stage wing, they saw the patriarch standing completely still. The guards were slowly but surely coming up to him and he clumsily stumbled around, almost knocking the microphone over.

 

“Canta!”

 

He looked down and saw Miguel, gesturing for him to sing. “ _Canta!_ ”

 

And so, after taking a quick glance at the guards as well as a deep breath, Héctor sang for the first time in ninety-six years:

 

_“Ay, de mí, llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste…”_

 

Víctor and Rosita’s jaws nearly dropped from their hinges, surprised to hear the patriarch singing when he hadn’t so much as _hummed_ in all their years of knowing him.

 

Miguel looked behind him and saw some guitars lying around. He grabbed one and pushed it into Imelda’s arms, then set up a microphone stand in front of the woman. She began to play along as her husband sang the next lines.

 

 _“Ay, de mí, llorona,_ _  
_ _Llorona de azul celeste…”_

 

Héctor began ascending the staircase at the left side of the stage, just as the guards were coming close.

 

_“Y aunque la vida me cueste, llorona,_

_No dejaré de quererte…”_

 

Imelda’s signs lit up, her ghostly heart beating quickly as she heard those words and saw the love in her husband’s eyes. So it was true that even after all these years, he still loved her.

 

_“No dejaré de quererte!”_

 

As Héctor grew more confident, his voice became more powerful. The orchestra quickly picked up and began playing along to his singing, making the crowd erupt with cheers and applause. He skillfully danced around the security guards, dodging them with his own techniques while making it all seem as though it was a part of the act.

 

_“Me subí al pino más alto, llorona,_

_A ver si te divisaba!_

_Como el pino era tierno, llorona,_

_Al verme llorar, lloraba!_

_Ay, de mí, llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste!”_

 

Just as Héctor was about to run over to his wife and tataranieto, Ernestina grabbed his arm and stopped him. The solo act soon turned into a duet, but it was clear that Héctor did _not_ like one second of it.

 

_“Ay, de mí, llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste!”_

 

Not being able to stand another second of seeing that bruja around her husband, Imelda passed the guitar over to Miguel – who quickly picked up on the song flawlessly – and stormed out, yanking her man’s other arm and pulling him away from her ex-friend. Her voice joining in sync with the two, turning the duet into a vocal trio.

 

Héctor felt a wave of relief wash over him, now that his wife had his back.

 

_“Y aunque la vida me cueste, llorona,_

_No dejaré de quererte!”_

 

Imelda helped Héctor evade Ernestina as she took his hands into hers and danced with him, their singing drowning out the mariachi’s voice as he twirled her around and even did a bit of tango with her.

 

_“Y aunque la vida me cueste, llorona, no dejaré de quererte!_

_No dejaré de quererte!_

_No dejaré de quererte!”_

 

Near the finale of the song, just as the couple was about to head backstage, Ernestina angrily grabbed Imelda and took over the final notes.

 

_“Ay, ay, ay!”_

 

Imelda promptly stomped on the older woman’s foot, making her let her go. The younger woman then grabbed her husband’s hand, and they ran offstage together.

 

Once they were backstage, Héctor took Imelda into his arms and dipped her. “Mi amor!”

 

“Mi esposo!” Imelda wrapped her arms around his neck, and they shared a romantic, passionate kiss.

 

Miguel rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth at the sight of his bisabuelos being so in love with each other. It was a wonderful scene, but he knew things had to be cut short if he was going to get home in time, so he held out the petal and cleared his throat: “ _Ahem._ ”

 

The two quickly pulled away from the kiss, both their signs brighter than christmas lights as they looked at their tataranieto.

 

“Uh, sorry about that,” Héctor apologized sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kind of got carried away there, thanks to the adrenaline rush…” He handed him the photo, then grabbed the petal. “Miguel, you have my blessing.” The petal started glowing. “You’ll go back home, put up our photos, and never–”

 

“Never sing and play music again,” Miguel finished, sullen about giving up his dream. A deal was a deal though, and family had to be put first before anything else.

 

“And never forget about us,” Héctor told him with a smile on his face, making the glow brightly and the boy look at him in surprise.

 

“Go back home, gatito,” Imelda said, giving the boy a warm, loving smile.

 

Miguel reached out, his finger only an inch away from the petal when he was grabbed by the hood and pulled away from it.

 

“ _You won’t be going anywhere!_ ” Ernestina growled as she held the boy up to her face.

 

Imelda gritted her teeth and was ready to pounce on her, only for De la Cruz to push her to the ground. Héctor immediately came over, getting on his knees to rub his wife’s shoulder. “Imelda!”

 

“Move back!” Ernestina yelled, dragging the boy away as the Riveras stepped closer. “Stay back! All of you, _move back!_ ” She dragged him further and further back on the stage. “If you come just one more step closer, I’ll–”

 

Dante flew in and growled at the woman, trying to grab Miguel by the shoe, only for Ernestina to win the tug of war and toss the boy across the roof, removing his hoodie in the process, throwing it to the ground as she walked towards the boy.

 

“Ernestina, stop it!” Imelda tried to implore the woman, stumbling and falling as the golden shimmer returned. It was Héctor who caught her, steadying his fallen wife. “Don’t do anything to the niñito.”

 

Ernestina turned to her, her eyes hard and her gaze fierce. “It was hard to come all this way. I've worked _too hard_ to let this boy ruin everything!” While the mariachi said this, Rosita grabbed a nearby camera, pointing it toward the deranged woman, then nodded at her nephew. Víctor caught on and quickly edged towards a control board, turning it on at full volume for all those in the stadium to hear.

 

“He’s still a living child, Ernestina!” Imelda continued to plead. “Would you really kill an innocent, little boy?”

 

“He’s _your child,_ not mine! And he’s _dangerous!_ ” Ernestina snapped, pointing at the boy. She didn’t notice the echo in her voice, nor was she aware that the clip of her holding Miguel hostage was projected onto the screen, making the audience fall to a hush as they watched in confusion and worry. “Do you really think I’ll let him go back home to the world of the living with your photo? To let your memory still continue to live on, and allow him to inform the world of my crimes? There’s not a chance in _hell_ that I’ll let that happen!”

 

“You coward!” Miguel cried.

 

Ernestina turned to the twelve year-old, stalking towards him. “I am _Ernestina de la Cruz,_ the most magnificent musician of all time!”

 

“The real musician is Imelda!” Miguel snapped, springing to his feet and standing his ground against her. “You’re just the woman who murdered her and stole her songs!”

 

“I am the one who is willing to do whatever it takes to seize her moment!” Ernestina hissed, grabbing him by his shirt. Her expression darkened as she took a few steps closer to the ledge of the roof, hoisting him over the edge. At a time like this, she remembered to do whatever it took and to  _never_ let anything threaten her memory,  _especially_ not an old friend or said ex-friend's tataranieto. “ _Whatever it takes._ ”

 

But just as she was ready to throw him over the edge, Pepita flew in front of the woman, letting out the loudest roar ever in her face. De la Cruz let out a screech of terror and dropped the boy – who quickly grabbed onto the railings around the edge before he could plummet to his death – before backing away, past the curtains and into the spotlight. She turned to the audience and let out a nervous laugh, “Haha!” 

 

But she was met with a response that she had never, _ever_ expected to hear from her ‘fans.’

 

“BOO!”

 

“Zorra!”

 

“You fraud!”

 

“Hija de bastardo!”

 

“El músico más magnífico de todos los tiempos? Más como la mujer más engañosa de todos los tiempos!”

 

“ _Murderer!_ ”

  

She felt her chest clench at the curses and claims they flung against her, confused as to why they were acting like this and how they managed to find out. “Mi familia, por favor–”

 

“Get off the stage, you filthy puta!” a member of the crowd shouted at her, followed by murmurs of agreement.

 

“ _Sirena!_ ” the conductor hissed, standing up and snapping his baton, flinging the pieces at her.

 

The crowd followed suit, flinging fruit and other offerings at her – even some members of the orchestra were throwing their instruments at her. She dodged as much as she could, her face hot with embarrassment as she never felt so much humiliation in her entire life. She felt their anger and their hatred, like a knife carving into one’s skin.

 

But why? _Why was this happening?_ She was one of the most magnificent, most loved musicians in the entire country! How could she have gone from the most loved musician, to the most hated in less than an hour?

 

A member of the audience’s gaze hardened, before she then noticed something on the screen and yelled: “It’s time you pay for your sins, vile demon!”

  
Ernestina looked up and saw the Rivera family gathered around the backstage ledge, trying to pull Miguel up. It was then that she finally realized _why_ the crowd had been booing at her and accusing her of murder – her backstage treachery had been recorded, broadcasted for all those in the Land of the Dead to see. Everyone now knew that she was nothing but a deceitful murderer. Not only that, but she also noticed Pepita prowling past the camera.

 

She began to back away as the large alebrije emerged through the curtain, eyes locked on her as though she were its prey. She chuckled nervously as it growled at her, bringing a hand up and trying to pet it in order to calm it down. “G-gatito bonito…”

 

Pepita let out a cry, headbutting the mariachi before snatching her in her talons. The jaguar played roughly with her prey, flinging and swinging her around like a ball of yarn. A cameraman eagerly filmed the whole thing, while the audience were jeering at the woman’s misery and rooting for the alebrije – some even using the money they were going to spend on merchandise and photographs to bet on what the mighty beast would do next to the former beloved musician. So far, their highest bid was Pepita ripping her to shreds, then using the bones as chew toys. 

 

“Put me down!” Ernestina begged, feeling more scared than she had ever been in her entire life. “I beg of you, please! _Stop!_ ”

 

Pepita swung Ernestina around one more time, headbutted her like a seal lion would hit a ball with its nose, then finally kicked her so hard that it sent her flying over the audience, towards a large bell in the distance.

 

Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the large bell, horrible memories of her death in 1942 resurfacing in her mind. “No, _NO!_ ” she screeched, before her body collided against the bell. She slipped off the side and fell face first onto the cold, hard stone ground beneath it. Hearing the bell creek, she looked up and gasped in fear before the wood that it was hanging from broke, causing the bell to collapse on top of her.

 

The sound of the bell’s final ring signaled the fall of the musician, and the end to her lies and treachery. Everyone in the stadium cheered as the two-faced, witchy sirena had received what she’d sought.

 

* * *

 

Miguel tried his best to remain calm, but it was hard considering that he was slowly starting to lose his grip on the ledge. Still, he tried his best to hold on.

 

Héctor and Imelda both held their hands out, while the rest of the family was holding onto the two to assist them in pulling the boy up. Even Dante held the hems of Rosita's dress in his teeth, so that there would be just enough strength to pull them all up. “Take our hands, Miguel!” the patriarch yelled.

 

“O-okay!” The boy reached his left hand out, taking his tatarabuelo’s hand. His right hand was still on the ledge, trying desperately to cling onto Imelda’s photo even though his grip was loosening by each second.

 

“Now, take my hand!” Imelda instructed him.

 

“B-but your photo–”

 

“It’s okay, just do it now! _Quick!_ ”

 

Miguel did as he was told, reaching out and grabbing Imelda’s hand, dropping the photo in the process. He watched on in guilt as it plummeted to the ground below, while Dante and the Riveras all pulled him back up onto the ledge. They pulled him into another big hug, whispering things such as “it’s okay” and “you’re safe now, mijo.” Once they pulled away from the hug, Miguel cupped Dante’s cheeks with his hands and praised the dog: “Good boy, Dante.”

 

Héctor engulfed the boy in one more hug. “Ay, _chamaco!_ That bruja will _never_ harm you again, I promise.”

 

Miguel immediately pulled away from the hug as he heard his tatarabuela groan, followed by the sounds of bones spasming and collapsing. He turned and quickly came to her aid. “Imelda! I’m so sorry I dropped the photo,” he apologized.

 

“It’s alright, Miguel.” Imelda reached out a hand, cupping his cheek. “It’s already–” she stopped, falling over as her body spasmed more violently than ever.

 

“ _Imelda!_ ” He gently grabbed her arm, turning her over so that she was now lying on her back. “Imelda…”

 

“Coco,” she choked out.

 

“No, she won’t forget you!” the boy exclaimed frantically, desperate to solve things. “I’ll go on Pepita’s back and look for the photo!”

 

Héctor went over to the right side of his wife, lifting her onto his lap as though she were the most fragile object in the universe. “Miguel, soon the sun will rise,” he said urgently, turning his head to aurora.

 

Miguel continued to fret over his tatarabuela, not even caring about the skeletal transformation slowly occurring on his face. “But how can I leave you when I promised that I’d put your on the ofrenda? I promised that you would be able to meet Coco, before she passed on!”

 

Imelda smiled sadly at him, pressing a hand to his cheek. “There’s no time left, Miguel.”

 

“No…” Miguel watched in dismay as the woman’s body convulsed again, making her hand fall to the side. “To think that Coco is forgetting you…”

 

Using what was left of her strength, Imelda lifted the marigold petal up. “All I ask of you now is that you do not forget how much your family loves you.”

 

“Imelda…”

 

“You have my blessing, Miguel,” she said, causing the petal to glow within her hands. “No conditions.”

 

Héctor’s hands cupped hers, pushing it towards the boy. “Go home.”

 

“No, I won’t go!” Miguel refused, backing away from the petal as tears fell from his eyes. “ _Mamá Imelda, please!_ ”

 

Víctor stepped in and grabbed his nephew’s shoulders, pushing him towards the flower. “Abuelo and Abuela said _go home,_ ” he firmly stated, though his voice was shaky as he struggled to keep his stoic mask on. “You will do as they say and accept their blessing.”

 

Miguel tried pushing back on his gran-tío’s hold. “No–”

 

“Please, return home,” his tatarabuela begged him softly.

 

“I will make Coco remember you!” Miguel promised her, before the petal finally touched his chest, making him yelp.

 

He would never know whether the petal touched him because Tío Víctor shoved him into it or because his bisabuelos pushed against his chest, for all he could see was a hurricane of petals, then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, okay so notes on this one:
> 
>   1. the scene with héctor and imelda – _god,_ this scene. i really wanted to try and keep them in character, while making it work for this au, so his anger at her is more of a heartbroken rage and the 'spat on our sacred culture' thing is because they grew up in the early 1900s, where a woman leaving her husband would be seen as scandalous, especially if she left him with a child. of course, then there’s the whole “forgiveness” thing – look, i know the whole scene goes in canon with the scorned spouse holding back on forgiveness, but damn it this is _héctor_ we’re talking about! héctor, who would’ve forgiven ernesto for stealing his songs had he not found out that de la cruz also murdered him. héctor, who held no bitterness against imelda for nearly making coco forget him – héctor, who loves his wife _so fucking much_ that he clings onto whatever small hope he has that one day, ONE DAY, she’ll forgive him and possibly give him a second chance. if you think for one _goddamn_ second that he wouldn’t be forgiving his wife or that he would hesitate to forgive her – even if she was the one who left him with their daughter – after finding out that she was murdered and that she intended to come back, then you are clearly on meth because this man is not one to hold grudges for long. he would forgive his wife and apologize in a heartbeat, because that’s just how he is – he’s a sweetheart, deep down.
>   2. the sensational sunrise – _oh boy,_ let me tell you about the sensational sunrise!! so, let’s start with héctor beating the shit out of ernestina: i know he grew up in the 1900s, and that he’s a sweet guy who wouldn’t be like those chauvinist, woman-beating i get that! i really do! _HOWEVER,_ this is a woman who murdered his wife and practically ruined his marriage, his family, his life and his wife’s afterlife too – therefore, i have no doubts that he would be ready to smack that _puta_.
>   3. ernestina realizing miguel is imelda’s kid and not hers is sort of just me trying to be consistent with her characterization, and the whole “i have no family” thing – hence why she insists miguel’s a threat, and that he ain’t her kid ergo she’s justified in throwing him off the building (which i shall get to after my next point).
>   4. the “la llorona” part was me trying to make imector’s reconciliation work, and also because ernestina putting her hands all over héctor felt so _wrong_ to me… ~~that and i personally never liked that ship, as hypocritical as it might sound coming from me.~~  either way, it’s imector and that’s always good, right?
>   5. ernestina’s whole scene and her trying to throw miguel off… oh, _this one_ – so, i tried rewording some lines from canon while also trying to fit it into my characterization of her. wrt pepita coming in just in time before miguel can be thrown off: i wanted to take a different approach on the “villain defeat”, and it seemed to work in my mind, making ernestina back up onto the stage and face the crowd’s ire – make her wake up and smell the hot cup of coffee, have her realize that _you’ve been exposed, puta!_ and i’m pretty sure i don’t have to go into detail about pepita kicking her trasero now, do i?
>   6. miguel being pulled up from the ledge by his family only seemed to work, since he wasn’t thrown off the building, therefore they could easily pull him up. as for the scene that follows afterward… so many feelings. T_T
> 

> 
> with this chapter completed, i’ll probably have the next one up sometime this week or maybe in the weekend? we’ll just have to wait and see.
> 
> i know i say this a lot, but i really do hope that you enjoyed this! <3


	9. if you close your eyes and let the music play (keep our love alive, i'll never fade away)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to ilovemarigolds: i know you keep telling me to take my time, but it’s hard considering all of the excitement i’m having over completing this fic - more so since i plan on making a sequel (which has been in the works since late december). that, and i promised one reader that this family would fix some issues.  
> to everyone else: i tried not to copy the film's scene to a T, but it's kinda hard considering that there's really no way you can top the scene in general, even in a roleswap au. nevertheless, i hope it's still good.
> 
> without further ado, i bring you the mexifeels, because i mexiCAN.  
> ahahaha im not funny rip me-

Marigold petals fell to the ground, scattering around Miguel’s body. He stirred awake upon feeling a few petals touch his head. Now wide awake, he could see the sun’s morning light pouring in through the windows, shining down upon him. He sat up on his knees and looked around, then looked at his hands and saw that there was only cinnamon-colored skin – no bones, no transparent skin; just regular old flesh as it had been, prior to his journey through the afterlife.

 

His journey…

 

_Oh no._

 

He looked to his right, and saw the guitar lying across him. He gasped and grabbed it, remembering the promise he had made to Imelda last night. He raced out of the tomb, through the gates of the cemetery onto the streets.

 

As he dashed through the plaza, his Prima Rosa saw him. “Miguel?”

 

“Ahi esta!” Tío Berto cried out.

 

“Miguel, deja de correr!” his father called out to him.

 

All of their calls fell upon deaf ears though, as he continued running towards his home. He was going to keep his promise and make sure that Mamá Coco didn’t forget her mother, and that Imelda’s memory continued to live on.

 

He threw open the gates as he rushed into the courtyard, hurrying as fast as he could to Mamá Coco’s room, only to be stopped by Abuelita Elena. “Miguel Julio Rivera Ocampos, _dónde has estado?!_ ”

 

Miguel looked around, trying to find a way to get past his abuelita. “I can’t say right now! I have to see Mamá Coco–”

 

Abuelita Elena gasped as she saw the guitar in his hands. “What are you doing with that guitar? Give it to me now!”

 

Miguel quickly moved to the side, rushing into his bisabuela’s room and locking the door behind him. He ignored the cries for him to unlock it as he went over to his bisabuela, kneeling beside her. If it weren’t for her body’s movements signaling that she was still breathing, he would’ve easily assumed that she was dead right now. She looked like a dried up raisin. “Mamá Coco? Soy Miguel.” He tried to look into her eyes. “Do you remember your mamá? I – I saw her last night, and we spent time together… and she told me how much she loved you.”

 

Not a single word came out of the ninety-nine year-old’s mouth.

 

“ _Por favor_ – you need to remember her, or else she’ll disappear from the Land of the Dead and you’ll never get to see her when you pass on to that world!” he pleaded.

 

Still no response.

 

He brought out his tatarabuela’s guitar. “This is her guitar. When you were a little girl, she played it to you as she sang your lullaby.” The guitar was cast aside as the old photo was pulled out of his pocket. “Look, it’s mamá!” He tried not to cry as he showed her the photo. “Mamá, recuerda? Tu mamá!”

 

  
Mamá Coco was more silent than a corpse.

 

“Mamá Coco, por favor,” he pleaded. “No te olvides de tu madre.”

 

With no response from her, he stood up and breathed in and out. He heard keys jangling, and soon all of his living family was in the room.

 

“She’s ninety-nine years-old – let the poor woman rest!” Abuelita Elena exclaimed, then went over to her mother. “Está bien, Mamita, está bien.”

 

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Enrique said, placing his hands on his hips as he walked up to his son.

 

Miguel couldn’t take it anymore. His head tilted down as he finally started to cry, sniffling as tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

Enrique softened. Whatever anger he had felt melted away as he put a hand on his son’s shoulder, only for the boy to throw his arms around his torso. He hugged his son, whispering, “I was so worried, Migue…”

 

“Perdóname, Papá,” the boy sobbed into his father’s shirt.

 

Luisa joined the hug, running a hand through her son’s hair before moving her hand over her husband’s. “We’re all together now,” she murmured. “Eso es todo lo que es importante.”

 

“N-no,” Miguel disagreed with his mother, praying to the gods that Imelda was still okay. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if she wasn’t. “Someone’s still missing…”

 

“ _Tranquila, Mamita,_ ” Abuelita soothed her mother. She turned to her nieto. “Miguel, discúlpate con tu Mamá Coco.”

He took a breath, then exhaled. He wiped a tear away, still sniffling as he approached his bisabuela. “Mamá Coco…” he trailed off as his foot bumped into the guitar. His gears started turning.

 

If she wouldn’t listen to what he had to say, then maybe she would listen to music.

 

“Miguel, apologize!” Abuelita ordered.

 

“Mamá Coco?” He picked up Imelda’s guitar. “Your mamá’s guitar – it’s your inheritance. If she could, she would’ve written a will and stated that the guitar is yours now.” With that, he started to play a few notes.

 

Abuelita was about to cut in, but Enrique grabbed her shoulder and stopped her before she could snatch the guitar away. “Now wait just a minute, Mamá.”

 

Miguel held back tears, trying to keep his voice from faltering as he started to sing the lullaby. Memories of his tatarabuela’s gentle, tender voice flooded in while he did so.

 

_“Recuérdame, hoy me tengo que ir mi amor,_

_Recuérdame, no llores por favor.”_

 

“Look,” Luisa spoke softly, and everyone soon noticed Mamá Coco stirring awake.

 

_“Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás,_

_A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar._

_Recuérdame, aunque tengo que emigrar…”_

 

Mamá Coco’s eyes opened, and with every note she began remembering everything, including her mother. Her spirit found its way out of its vegetated state, and her eyes became clear as she looked to her bisnieto.

 

Much to everyone’s shock, her scratchy, old voice joined Miguel’s youthful, vigorous one in unison.

 

_“Recuérdame, si mi guitarra oyes llorar…”_

Like the rest of his family, Miguel was also shocked at what he saw, yet he was also delighted. A feeling of success bubbled within him as he smiled at his bisabuela. Somehow, it was then and there that he knew that Imelda’s memory was safe and secure.

 

_“Ella con su triste canto te acompañará,_

_Hasta que en mis brazos tú estés,_

_Recuérdame…”_

 

Mamá Coco beamed at her bisnieto, then looked at her only daughter. She was concerned as she saw some tears rolling down her cheeks. “Elena, qué pasa, mija?”

 

“Nada, Mamá,” Elena replied, sniffing back tears. “No tengo nada.”

 

Mamá Coco looked back to Miguel. “My mamá used to sing me that song,” she said, remembering how she used to sit at the edge of her bed while her mother sang to her. “She told me that it was our song, and no one else’s.”

 

“Your mamá loved you so much, Mamá Coco,” Miguel said, now sobbing again. “She tried to come home, but she couldn’t make it because she was – _she was_ –” he was cut off as he started hiccupping due to all of his crying, memories of the previous night still fresh in his mind as if they had only happened minutes ago.

 

Mamá Coco cupped his face in her hands, smiling as she heard how much her mother loved her, finally getting the confirmation she’d been seeking for a century. She reached into a drawer, pulling out a notebook. “I hid the letters and poems she wrote me, since I feared Papá would’ve taken them away or they would’ve been burnt by someone,” she explained as she opened the notebook. “And, I kept this as well…” She stopped at a page, plucking out a small piece of paper.

 

Miguel’s eyes widened as he was handed the piece of paper. He turned it over in his hands and saw that it was Imelda’s half of the torn photo. He picked up Papá Héctor’s part of the photo, putting Imelda’s piece where it should’ve been. _She’s home,_ he thought contentedly, filled with relief.

 

“My mamá’s name was Imelda. She was a guitarist,” Mamá Coco began to speak of her mother. “When I was a little girl, Mamá would play, and she and Papá would sing and dance. It was a beautiful time.”

 

The family listened in as Mamá Coco recalled all of her memories of her mother.

 

(It was at that moment that not only was he now certain that Imelda was safe and that her memory would live on forever, but he had also learned just how strong a daughter’s love for her mother could be.

  
  
And just as he kept his promise that Mamá Coco would not forget her mother, he would also keep his promise to never forget how much his family loved him.)

 

* * *

 

Miguel looked at his arms as he and his family headed back inside the house. His wrists had bruises all over them, due to how tight de la Cruz’s grip had been on him. Her bony thumbs had scratched at his skin, leaving visible marks all over that not even a nearsighted person could miss. Not to mention, there were some bruises on his face as well due to his former idol flinging him across the roof as though he were a rag doll, costing him his hoodie and the last of his innocence.

 

And _of course,_ it was his Prima Rosa who noticed first. “Miguel, your arms!” she gasped, pointing to the marks. “You’re covered in bruises!”

 

The rest of his family’s eyes darted to his arms, and they soon saw the injuries as well.

 

“ _Dios!_ ” Enrique cried out. “What happened to you, mijo?”

 

“And where’s your jacket?” Luisa pointed out. “You always wear it. Where has it gone?”

 

“You never answered my question, either,” Abuelita Elena spoke up. “Where _did_ you go last night?”

 

“You’d say I’m crazy if I told you,” Miguel replied, hesitant to reveal where he’d been in fear that they’d think he was suffering from a delusion of sorts. “Or maybe you’d call me a fool.”

 

“We won’t call you crazy _or_ a fool,” Enrique promised. “Just _please,_ tell us where you’ve been.”

 

Knowing that his family would continue to pushing him to tell the truth, he decided to ignore whatever anxiety plagued him and did exactly that. He recalled everything – getting cursed for taking the guitar, meeting the dead Riveras, the whole blessings thing, his stubbornness leading to him meeting Mamá Imelda even though they knew nothing of their relation at the time, all of the time they had spent together before being separated after their duet, how he met Ernestina de la Cruz and then discovered how she murdered Mamá Imelda, how he and Mamá Imelda discovered they were related, how the rest of the family reunited with them, how they all stood against de la Cruz, how she tried to throw him off a building before Pepita came in and how she had been exposed to the world; he recalled everything, up until he woke up in the tombs.

 

When he was done explaining everything, he saw his family gaping at him in shock. “Um…” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little uncomfortable with all the silence. “Are – are you guys okay?”

 

“Are _we_ okay?” Enrique repeated his son’s words. “We should be asking you if _you’re_ okay!” He and Luisa pulled their son into a hug, both horrified upon learning what their son had gone through. “Mi pobre, dulce niño… to think, last night you went to hell and back and we didn’t even know… _lo siento mucho, mijo._ ”

 

“My brave little hero,” Luisa whispered, stroking her son’s hair gently, peppering his forehead with kisses.

 

“So _that’s_ why you weren’t in the plaza or the cemetery,” Tío Berto realized.

 

“All this time, you were cursed and stuck in some kind of limbo,” Tía Gloria muttered, her voice shaky and weak.

 

“Meanie de la Cruz!” one of his twin cousins, Manny, yelled.

 

“Meanie Tina hurt Miguel!” the other twin, Benny, squeaked.

 

“That _diabla!_ ” Abuelita Elena spat, angered that someone would even attempt to throw her nieto off a building. “How _dare_ she try to murder our dulce, precioso, querido pequeño Miguelito? I hope she rots underneath that bell for the rest of her afterlife, until she’s forgotten!”

 

“It’s okay,” Miguel tried to calm everyone down. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine, I swear.”

 

Tía Carmen looked from her nephew to her only daughter. “Rosa, could you go treat your primo’s wounds?” she requested.

 

The fourteen year-old nodded and went over to the freezer, pulling out an ice pack. “Come on, Miguel. Let’s go,” she said, and they went upstairs into the bathroom. Using a paper towel to hold the ice pack, she carefully pressed it against her primo’s bruises, making the boy hiss at how cold it was. “Lo siento, _pero_ it’s the only way it’ll stop swelling.”

 

“Lo sé, lo sé,” Miguel mumbled, trying to ignore the icy cold feeling in his wrists. His thoughts went back to last night – to his argument with his abuelita and father, and how he’d snapped at everyone, especially his cousin. Looking back at it now, he felt bad for letting his anger get the better of him. “…hey, Rosa?”

 

She looked up from the wounds she was treating. “Yeah?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For… for snapping at you back there. I let my anger get the better of me, and I–”

 

“I’m the one who should say sorry,” Rosa interrupted him softly, a look of guilt on her face. “You were right in a way. I was looking out for myself. I shouldn’t have stopped talking to you, I shouldn’t have shut you out like I did – but I was afraid that if I’d get caught and… and I thought that if I tried living up to my middle namesake, then maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about my violin being confiscated.” She looked away from him, shutting her eyes tightly as she sighed. “But in the end, it made things worse.”

 

“Violin?” he asked, confused.

  
“You thought you were the only secret musician?” She smiled bitterly, standing up and putting the icepack on the sink counter. “ _Venga,_ let me show you.”

 

He followed her as she led him into her room, watching as she went to carefully shut the door behind them. Then, she went over to her bed and knelt down, pulling out something from underneath it.

 

Miguel’s eyes widened as he saw her hold a makeshift violin in her hands, complete with a bow. “You… you–”

 

“At the end of the school day, I have this music class,” Rosa began to explain. “I told the teacher about the music ban, and they agreed to take it off my schedule online while keeping me in the class – that way, no one would suspect that a Rivera would be a secret musician.” She ran her hands over the instrument. “When I’m at home, I keep this hidden underneath my bed. When the room’s being vacuumed, I hide it in my drawers with all my clothes. I kept this a secret since 2015, and Abel is the only one who was aware of this… until now.”

 

Miguel soaked in all of her words, then chuckled at the irony of it all. While she sometimes acted like Tío Víctor, she truly was Mamá Imelda’s tataranieta. “Reminds me of when Mamá Imelda played for the first time,” he remarked, smiling a little. “You’re just like her… you’ve even got her looks.”

 

She blushed a little at that, then smirked and wiggled her eyebrows, reminding him of their tatarabuela. “I am _muy bonita,_ aren’t I?”

 

Together, they laughed for a good few minutes. They soon stopped laughing, and she asked him, “So, does this mean you forgive me?”

 

He nodded. “Of course.” He opened his arms. “Awkward primo hug?”

 

“Awkward primo hug,” she said, opening her arms as well.

 

They hugged each other in an awkward manner, patting one another’s back during the hug.

 

“You know,” Rosa started. “I think Abuelita might lift the music ban, since your singing proved that music isn’t all that bad.”

 

“Maybe.” Miguel pulled away from the hug, shrugging his shoulders. “The only thing I know is that Ernestina de la Cruz must be exposed, if Mamá Imelda’s honor is ever to be restored.”

 

“ _And_ if you and her are to be avenged,” Rosa added.

 

“You mean if _she’s_ to be avenged,” Miguel corrected her. “I’m still alive. De la Cruz didn’t get to leave me in the cenote to die _or_ throw me off the building, since Pepita took care of her.”

 

“Y-yeah…” Rosa trembled a bit, terrified at the very thought of how close her primo had been to being murdered. _Twice._ “I’m glad she did. I don’t know what I would do if you didn’t survive…”

 

Seeing tears forming in his prima’s eyes, Miguel pulled her into another hug. “Está bien, Ro,” he soothed. “I’m here.”

 

“Te amo, primo,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. “ _Te quiero mucho._ ”

 

“Yo también te quiero, prima,” he whispered back.

 

* * *

 

**December 1st, 1921**

**Dear Coco,**

**I apologize for taking so long to come home. I would’ve come back sooner, but your Tía Ernestina has been pressuring me to stay. She keeps insisting that we must continue touring the country, and that we’ll get nowhere if we quit now. I’m afraid that she’s obsessed with this dream of becoming a famous singer – so much so, that there are nights where I can barely even recognize her. She’s changed so much, that she’s no longer the same girl I grew up in an orphanage with. She’s now some woman that keeps demanding for me to stay with her.**

**But I don’t want to stay. I want to come home to you and your papá so, so badly. I want to be with you two again.**

**I’ve booked a train ride home next Wednesday, on December 7th. I promise you that once that train arrives in Santa Cecilia, I will be home and I will never leave you or your papá ever again.**

**_Your loving mamá,_ **

**_Imelda Rivera._ **

 

That was the last letter Imelda Rivera had written to her daughter, before she died of arsenic poisoning in the evening of December 7th, 1921 while trying to come home to her husband and daughter.

 

This letter and the songbook that Coco had kept were taken to the police station, presented as evidence that Imelda was the true musician and that Ernestina de la Cruz had murdered her.

 

In order to reach the final conclusion of whether or not this was true, the police officers – along with Enrique and Miguel Rivera – all headed to Mexico City. In the outskirts, they dug around until they came across a shallow grave, with the skeleton of a young woman in her early twenties inside of it.

 

Enrique held onto his son as the boy collapsed to his knees, letting out a loud cry as the cold, lifeless skeleton was identified to be his tatarabuela’s.

 

The police took the skeleton to the station and had a few scientists run tests on it, examining it further before the cause of death was identified to indeed be arsenic poisoning.

 

With all of the evidence gathered, it was concluded that Imelda Rivera had been murdered by Ernestina de la Cruz, and that the older woman took the younger woman’s songs as some sort of consolation prize.

 

Once the case was closed, Enrique and Miguel boarded a train back to Oaxaca. On the way home, Miguel couldn’t help but feel a bit of grief at the fact that it had taken almost one-hundred years for the truth to finally come out.

 

But when they finally got home, the young boy’s grief was gone as he saw a familiar hairless dog running up to him, with a letter in its mouth.

 

Miguel took the letter into his hands, and tears of joy pricked the corners of his eyes once he saw the handwriting.

 

It was from Mamá Imelda.

 

(The music ban was soon lifted after Enrique delivered the news, and everyone in the Rivera household rejoiced as they would finally be able to enjoy the one thing they had been missing out on for so long.

 

But in the end, what made Miguel truly happy was the fact that he’d done it. He had saved Mamá Imelda and avenged her.

 

And for the first time in all of his life, he felt truly complete.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand with this chapter completed, this story has only one final chapter left to go!
> 
> i'm sorry if the ending bit where justice was served was 'meh.' i just didn't have much else to work with then. as for the bits with miguel telling his family he visited the land of the dead and the half with rosa, i kind of wanted to give them a bit of closure? i mean, the kid's gotta have some bruises after all he's been through, so it seemed only logical for him to tell them. that, and i wanted to write miguel and rosa bonding because family fluff is wonderful. :3  
> speaking of rosa, that reminds me - i really have to finish this post-canon oneshot i wrote, where *spoiler* she becomes a famous musician like her primo, before finally 'retiring' to become the next matriarch of the family. after all, she _does_ take after imelda quite a bit, and she's a rivera woman - therefore, it's only logical. 
> 
> anyway, i'd like to thank all of you for joining me on this little journey. i hope the finale will be very satisfying for you all, and that the sequel will be good enough... even if it does center around a slightly 'controversial' (for lack of a better term for something that's brought up in the discourse™ a lot) trope. until then, i hope you all have a good afternoon and a good night! <3


	10. amor verdadero nos une por siempre, en el latido de mi corazón

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, this is it… the end of this story. now, i’m going to be completely honest with you guys: i cried a little when i realized that this story had come to an end because i had so much fun with it, but some stories just have to end, in order for new ones to begin, so i’ll just say thank you all _so much_ for all the wonderful feedback. you’re all just a bunch of peaches. <3
> 
> without further ado, i hope you all take pleasure in this little finale.

November 2nd, 2018

Santa Cecilia, Oaxaca, Mexico

6:30 P.M.

 

A year had gone by, and it was Día de los Muertos again. A lot of things had changed since Miguel’s journey to the Land of the Dead.

 

For one, Ernestina de la Cruz was no longer Mexico’s most beloved musician. Now, she had fallen from grace as everyone now knew that she was no musician, but merely a fraud who had made success off of someone else’s songs after murdering them. She was now Mexico’s most despised criminal, having earned the title of _hija de mal._ Her statue at the plaza was taken down and smashed into pieces, leaving a statue of her victim in its place. In fact, the only remaining statue of her was the bust at her mausoleum, which had a sign on it that read _Que el mundo te olvide, asquerosa bruja._ That sign was the only reason anyone came to visit the mausoleum, so that they could curse out the thief.

 

Nowadays, almost no one stopped by de la Cruz’s tomb. Instead, it was the new exhibit at the Rivera workshop that became the center of attraction for many tourists. No one could blame them though, because who wouldn’t want to see the guitar along with the framed letters of magnificent Imelda Rivera, written to her darling daughter Coco?

 

While the rest of his family setting up holiday preparations in the courtyard, Miguel was in the ofrenda room showing his eleventh month-old baby sister, Socorro, all of the pictures of their family members.

 

(Another thing that had changed was that he became a big brother in December, just a month after his journey. His parents had named the baby girl after Mamá Coco, in honor of the old woman.

 

His parents let him pick out the middle name, and he decided upon Imelda in honor of the family matriarch.

 

He loved his baby sister with all of his heart and soul. If someone were to ask him what was the best gift he had ever gotten in life, he would answer: “Socorro Imelda Rivera Ocampos.”)

 

“And that’s your Papá Héctor and your Mamá Imelda,” he said as he held his little sister in his arms, rocking her back and forth while she cooed. “And that man is Abuelita’s padre, your Papá Julio…” He pointed to the pictures of their gran-tío and gran-tía. “That’s Abuelita’s hermano, Tío Víctor, and the woman next to him is Tía Rosita…” Finally, he pointed to the twins. “And those two are Papá Héctor’s twin hermanos, Oscar and Felipe.” Socorro reached her hands out, leaning forward in her brother’s arms, only for him to bounce her a bit. “Now, it’s important that you know that these aren’t just pictures – these people are members of our family, and we have to remember them and tell their stories so that they’ll never be forgotten.”

 

Abuelita Elena walked up to Miguel, placing a hand on his cheek. “You’ve grown so much, mijo,” she whispered, smiling at him. “I’m so proud of you.” Then, her eyes shifted to the photo in her hands. She smiled sadly, placing the photo on the ofrenda – a photo of Mamá Coco.

 

(She died a few months ago in the same room, after dozing off to sleep as Miguel pointed out what he thought was the spirit of both her parents.

 

He remembered trying to wake her up, but to no avail. She had already joined her parents, husband and son in the afterlife.)

 

Seeing how upset his abuela was, Miguel wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t be sad, Abuelita,” he tried to comfort her. “She’s with the rest of our family now.”

 

“I know, mijo,” she sighed, the bittersweet smile still tugging at her lips. “I know.”

 

Beside Coco’s photo was the restored version of Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor, symbolizing the truth of the boy’s words. Their family was finally together again.

 

* * *

 

November 2nd, 2018

Land of the Dead, Santa Cecilia, Mexico

10:00 P.M.

 

At the end of the departures line stood both Imelda and Héctor. The patriarch wore his usual attire, and he looked a little nervous as he feared that the scanner wouldn’t work for his wife. Sure, Coco had confirmed that her photo was on the ofrenda and that all of the living Riveras knew what had happened to their matriarch, but he couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy about it.

 

Imelda, on the other hand, had a red rose in her hair and wore a purple dress with floral patterns, complete with black boots. Unlike her husband, she was confident now that she would finally be able to cross the marigold bridge. After all, Miguel was not one to break promises nor was her daughter the type to lie, so what did she have to lose now?

 

“Siguiente!” came the agent’s call.

 

_“Dirás que es raro lo que me pasó.”_

 

Imelda took a calm breath in, then stepped up to the scanner. She heard Héctor blabbering nervously as he came up next to her, but she focused on the scanner in front of her and gave a big grin. She was elated to hear a positive ‘ding’ once the scan was complete.

 

“Felicitaciones, Imelda!” the agent congratulated her. “May you, your husband and your family have a wonderful night!”

 

“You too!” Imelda beamed at the agent, then left through the gates with her shocked husband in tow. She looked to him and smiled smugly. “I told you it’d work earlier tonight, didn’t I?”

 

He shook his head, his shocked expression changing into a beatific one. “So you did.” He leaned in and kissed her.

 

(It didn’t take too long for them to patch things up. Sure, there were times where he felt guilty and she had to comfort him, along with nights where she’d express her regrets and he would have to comfort her, but that was merely a part of the recovery process. What were a few tears compared to the chance of finally reaching the point where they had left off in life?)

 

_“Parece que anoche te encontré en mis sueños.”_

 

“Mamá!” Coco cried out.

 

“Coco!” Imelda pulled away from her husband so that she could shower her daughter’s forehead with many kisses. “ _Mi bebita!_ ” She folded her daughter into a tight hug, and the two held onto each other for a while. It had taken ninety-six years for them to reunite, but the wait was finally worth it in the end.

 

Once both mother and daughter pulled away from the hug, the three all joined hands and began to walk towards the bridge together.

 

_“Las palabras que dije se volvieron canción,_

_Versos que tuyos son y el recuerdo nos dio!”_

 

Every second felt like a miracle as Imelda saw petals glowing underneath her boots. This was _real,_ this was _really happening_ – she was _actually_ crossing the bridge with her husband and daughter!

 

_“Una melodía bella que el alma tocó,_

_Con el ritmo que vibra en nuestro interior.”_

 

At the end of the bridge stood the rest of the dead Riveras, who had been waiting for the three to join them. Héctor linked arms with Víctor, while Coco took Rosita’s hand. Imelda looked at her daughter, smiling happily as they all went across the bridge together.

 

_“Amor verdadero nos une por siempre,_

_en el latido de mi corazón.”_

 

Pepita flew across the sky, joined by Dante. After flying around her head a few times, Dante let out a bark, which seemed to be their signal to go join their masters. So, they flew across the bridge to the Land of the Living.

 

Dante returned to his regular form as he came around a corner of the neighborhood, then looked back at Pepita. Surprisingly, her regular form wasn’t a jaguar, but rather that of a regular grey cat.

 

_“Amor verdadero nos une por siempre,_

_en el latido de mi corazón.”_

 

Both cat and dog ran together into the Rivera courtyard, greeted by Abuelita Elena, who tossed a small piece of pan dulce to Dante while Pepita climbed up on the table and allowed Berto and Carmen to pet her.

 

_“Ay, mi familia!_

_Oiga, mi gente!_

_Canten a coro nuestra canción!”_

 

After finishing his treat, Dante wandered around, interrupting a conversation between Víctor, Rosita and Julio. The three didn’t mind though, and Rosita gave Dante a pat on the back before the dog went over to Miguel, who was dressed in a red mariachi suit. Víctor, Julio and Rosita looked on, proud of their boy.

 

Miguel played and sang with as much passion and power as he could muster, giving it all as much as he could – not even stopping when Dante came by to lick his cheek. He wasn’t the only Rivera kid playing an instrument though, as his Prima Rosa was playing her violin while Primo Abel played his accordion. Rosa even winked at him as he got off the stool he was sitting on, moving around the compound.

 

_“Amor verdadero nos une por siempre,_

_en el latido de mi corazón!”_

 

Enrique and Luisa were filled with so much joy as they saw their son perform. Their little boy had grown so much, and now he was a star.

 

Elena was so delighted to see her grandchildren play, tears of joy in her eyes as she watched her little Miguelito pass by.

  
Coco had an arm wrapped around her daughter’s should, smiling warmly at her bisnieto. When he was a baby, she had always sang him _Recuérdame_ to get him to sleep, and he would always babble and clap his hands once she’d finish. He always had the musical talent in him since day one, and now he finally got to show it.

 

_“Ay, mi familia!_

_Oiga, mi gente!_

_Canten a coro nuestra canción!”_

 

Héctor twirled Imelda around as they danced to the music, before stopping their dance as Miguel came close to them. Imelda took the spirit of the guitar, playing along with her grandson.

 

Miguel hopped onto a table, and the whole family formed a circle around the table. Everyone clapped and cheered, before both the living and dead Riveras joined in singing the final verse along with their little star.

 

_“Amor verdadero nos une por siempre,_ _en el latido de mi corazón!”_

 

Enrique and Berto lifted Miguel up into the air as the song was finished, and everyone erupted into applause.

 

Soon, Miguel was set down as the family went on to begin their meal while sharing stories of their ancestors. The boy stayed behind, excusing himself by saying that he had something to do real quick.

 

He looked over to his deceased relatives, then threw himself at Imelda, wrapping his arms around her torso and hugging her tightly. “Mamá Imelda! I missed you so much!”

 

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, rubbing his back.

 

“Wait, you can see us, chamaco?” Héctor asked in surprise. “But… _how?_ ”

 

“Maybe because he was almost trapped in the Land of the Dead?” Coco suggested, shrugging a little.

 

“Either way, it’s so good to be able to visit you, now that my photo’s been put up,” Imelda said sweetly as Miguel pulled away from the hug a bit.

 

“I made sure to put your photo through a copy machine, so that we have extra copies in case the one on the ofrenda gets torn,” Miguel explained. “I also started writing a couple of songs about you and the others! None of them are finished, but they’re all works in progress.”

 

Imelda chuckled at that. “Speaking of songs, your singing just now? It was _perfecto,_ ” she complimented him. “I’m proud to have you as a tataranieto.”

 

“And there’s not a day where I’m not proud that we’re family,” Miguel replied, smiling up at her. “Te quiero, Mamá Imelda.”

 

“Yo también te quiero, mijo,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “I love you more than words can describe.”

 

“Miguel!”

 

The two looked away, to see the rest of the living Riveras waving their arms, beckoning for the boy to sit down and dine with them.

 

“We should all probably join them,” Imelda stated, looking at her living family. She looked to the other deceased Riveras. “What do you guys say?”

 

“Por supuesto!” they all agreed, nodding.

 

Imelda looked back at Miguel. “Lead the way, gatito,” she said softly, ruffling his hair.

 

The boy laughed, then ran ahead to his living family, with the deceased Riveras following suit.

 

 

 

(Now, the whole family was brought together again with a song – a song written from their love.

 

It was true in the end that true love united them forever, and said love would live on in the beat of their hearts.)

 

 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue end credits rolling*
> 
> now, is this ending really simple? yes. is it a little plain? perhaps, but i thought it was a very sweet way to end things off. i think miguel seeing his dead ancestors as a side effect from almost being trapped in the land of the dead seems reasonable enough, and family fluff is always wonderful no matter how long it is. 
> 
> i'm happy to have entertained you guys and that you all had fun reading this while it lasted. with this story completed, i shall now finally get to posting the sequel since i've been promising to write for kchips a long time, and i need to keep my promises.
> 
> that being said, until next time everyone! take care, and i love you all! <3


End file.
